MRS.  JOHN  VAN  VORST 
MARIE  VAN   VORST 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


°ie  of  Am« 


SHOP 


MRS.    JOHN   VAN    VORST    AS    "ESTHER    KELLY" 
Wearing  the  costume  of  the  pickle  factory 


MISS    MARIE    VAN     VORST    AS    "  BKLL   BALLARD" 
At  work  in  a  shoe  factory 


The  Woman  Who 
Toils 


Being  the  Experiences  of  'Two  Ladies 
as   Factory  Girls 

BY 

MRS.  JOHN  VAN  VORST  and 
MARIE  VAN  VORST 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK  : 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1903 


Copyright,  1901,  1903,  by 
John  Wanamaker 

Copyright,  1903,  by 

Doubled  ay,  Page  &  Company 

Published,  February,  1903 


Bus.  Admin. 
Library 

HD 

p 

V3 


DEDICATION 


In  loving  tribute  to  his  genius,  and 
to  his  human  sympathy,  which  in 
Pathos  and  Seriousness,  as  well  as 
in  Mirth  and  Humour,  have  made 
him  kin  with  the  whole  world  :  — 

this  book  is  inscribed  by 
BESSIE  and  MARIE  VAN  VORST. 


PREFATORY   LETTER   FROM   THEODORE 
ROOSEVELT 

Written  after  reading  Chapter  III.  ivJten  published  serially 

WHITE  HOUSE,  WASHINGTON,  October  18,  1902. 
My  Dear  Mrs.  Van  Vorst: 

I  must  write  you  a  line  to  say  how  much  I  have  appre- 
ciated your  article,  "  The  Woman  Who  Toils. "  But  to 
me  tliere  is  a  most  melancholy  side  to  it,  when  you  touch 
upon  what  is  fundamentally  infinitely  more  important 
than  any  other  question  in  this  country — that  is,  the  ques- 
tion of  race  suicide,  complete  or  partial. 

An  easy,  good-natured  kindliness,  and  a  desire  to  be 
"independent" — that  is,  to  live  one's  life  purely  according 
to  one's  own  desires — are  in  no  sense  substitutes  for  the 
fundamental  virtues,  for  the  practice  of  the  strong,  racial 
qualities  without  which  there  can  be  no  strong  races — the 
qualities  of  courage  and  resolution  in  both  men  and  women, 
of  scorn  of  what  is  mean,  base  and  selfish,  of  eager  desire  to 
work  or  fight  or  suffer  as  the  case  may  be  provided  the  end 
to  be  gained  is  great  enough,  and  the  contemptuous  putting 
aside  of  mere  ease,  mere  vapid  pleasure,  tnere  avoidance 
of  toil  and  worry.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  most  pity  or 
most  despise  the  foolish  and  selfish  man  or  woman  who 
does  not  understand  that  the  only  things  really  worth  having 

vii 


viii  PREFATORY   LETTER 

•in  life  are  those  the  acquirement  of  which  normally  means 
cost  and  effort.  If  a  man  or  woman,  through  no  fault  of 
his  or  hers,  goes  throughout  life  denied  those  highest  of  all 
joys  which  spring  only  from  home  life,  from  the  having 
and  bringing  up  of  many  healthy  children,  I  feel  for  them 
deep  and  respectful  sympathy — the  sympathy  one  extends 
to  the  gallant  fellow  killed  at  the  beginning  of  a  campaign, 
or  the  man  who  toils  hard  and  is  brought  to  ruin  by  the 
fault  of  others.  But  the  man  or  woman  who  deliberately 
avoids  marriage,  and  has  a  heart  so  cold  as  to  know  no 
passion  and  a  brain  so  shallow  and  selfish  as  to  dislike 
having  children,  is  in  effect  a  criminal  against  the  race, 
and  should  be  an  object  of  contemptuous  abhorrence  by  all 
healthy  people. 

Of  course  no  one  quality  makes  u  good  citizen,  and  no 
one  quality  will  save  a  nation.  But  there  are  certain  great 
qualities  for  the  lack  of  which  no  amount  of  intellectual 
brilliancy  or  of  material  prosperity  or  of  easiness  of  life 
can  atone,  and  which  show  decadence  and  corruption  in 
the  nation  just  as  much  if  they  are  produced  by  selfishness 
and  coldness  and  ease-loving  laziness  among  compara- 
tively poor  people  as  if  they  are  produced  by  vicious  or 
frivolous  luxury  in  the  rich.  If  the  men  of  the  nation  are 
not  anxious  to  work  in  many  different  ways,  with  all  their 
might  and  strength,  and  ready  and  able  to  fight  at  need, 
and  anxious  to  be  fathers  of  families,  and  if  the  women  do 
not  recognize  that  the  greatest  thing  for  any  woman  is  to  be 
a  good  wife  and  mother,  why,  that  nation  has  cause  to  be 
alarmed  about  its  future. 


IX 

There  is  no  physical  trouble  among  us  Americans.  The 
trouble  with  the  situation  you  set  forth  is  one  of  character, 
and  therefore  we  can  conquer  it  if  we  only  will. 

Very    sincerely    yours,  ' 

THEODORE   ROOSEVELT. 


PREFATORY   NOTE 


A  portion  of  the  material  in  this  book 
appeared  serially  under  the  same  title  in 
Everybody's  Magazine.  Nearly  a  third 
of  the  volume  has  not  been  published  in 
any  form. 


CONTENTS 


By  MRS.  JOHN  VAN  VORST 


CHAPTER 


I.  Introductory        .... 

II.  In  a  Pittsburg  Factory 

III.  Perry,  a  New  York  Mill  Town 

IV.  Making  Clothing  in  Chicago 
V.  The  Meaning  of  It  All     . 


PACK 

I 

7 

59 

99 

155 


By  MARIE  VAN  VORST 


CHAPTER 

VI.     Introductory      .      •  .    •     .        /'; 

VII.     A  Maker  of  Shoes  at  Lynn     • 

VIII.     The  Southern  Cotton.  Mills    • 

The  Mill  Village 
The  Mill 

IX.     Thre  Child  in  the  Southern  Mills 


PACK 
I65 
I69 
215 

275 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Miss    Marie   and    Mrs.  John   Van  Vorst  in  their  factory 

COStUmeS,  .......          Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"  The  streets  are  covered  with  snow,  and  over  the  snow  the 

soot  falls  softly  like  a  mantle  of  perpetual  mourning,"     12 

"  Waving  arms  of  smoke  and  steam,  a  symbol  of  spent 

energy,  of  the  lives  consumed,  and  vanishing  again,"       58 

"They  trifle  with  love," 70 

After  Saturday  night's  shopping,  .....  84 
Sunday  evening  at  Silver  Lake, 96 

"  The  breath  of  the  black,  sweet  night  reached  them,  fetid, 
heavy  with  the  odour  of  death  as  it  blew  across 
the  stockyards," 102 

In  a  Chicago  theatrical  costume  factory,  .         .         .114 

Chicago  types,  .  .  .  '.  .  .  .  .128 
The  rear  of  a  Chicago  tenement,  .....  144 
A  delicate  type  of  beauty  at  work  in  a  Lynn  shoe  factory,  172 

One  of  the  swells  of  the  factory :  a  very  expert  "vamper," 

an  Irish  girl,  earning  from  $10  to  $14  a  week,          .     172 

"Learning"  a  new  hand,        »    ' 184 

The  window  side  of   Miss  K.'s  parlour  at  Lynn,  Mass.,     196 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS     (Continued) 

FACING  PAGE 

"Fancy  gumming"          .......  210 

An  all-round,  experienced  hand, 210 

"Mighty  mill — pride  of  the  architect  and  the  commercial 

magnate,"  ........  220 

"  The  Southern  mill-hand's  face  is  unique,  a  fearful  type,"  240 


THE  WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 
CHAPTER   I— INTRODUCTORY 

BY 

MRS.  JOHN  VAN  VORST 


CHAPTER   I 
INTRODUCTORY 

ANY  journey  into  the  world,  any  research  in 
literature,  any  study  of  society,  demonstrates  the 
existence  of  two  distinct  classes  designated  as  the 
rich  and  the  poor,  the  fortunate  and  the  unfortu- 
nate, the  upper  and  the  lower,  the  educated  and 
the  uneducated — and  a  further  variety  of  opposing 
epithets.  Few  of  us  who  belong  to  the  former  cate- 
gory have  come  into  more  than  brief  contact  with 
the  labourers  who,  in  the  factories  or  elsewhere,  gain 
from  day  to  day  a  livelihood  frequently  insufficient 
for  their  needs.  Yet  all  of  us  are  troubled  by  their 
struggle,  all  of  us  recognize  the  misery  of  their 
surroundings,  the  paucity  of  their  moral  and  esthetic 
inspiration,  their  lack  of  opportunity  for  physical 
development.  All  of  us  have  a  longing,  pronounced 
or  latent,  to  help  them,  to  alleviate  their  distress, 
to  better  their  condition  in  some,  in  every  way. 

Now  concerning  this  unknown  class  whose  oppres- 
sion we  deplore  we  have  two  sources  of  information : 
the  financiers  who,  for  their  own  material  advance- 
ment, use  the  labourer  as  a  means,  and  the  philan- 
thropists who  consider  the  poor  as  objects  of  charity, 

3 


4  THE    WOMAN  WHO    TOILS 

to  be  treated  sentimentally,  or  as  economic  cases  to 
be  studied  theoretically.  It  is  not  by  economics  nor 
by  the  distribution  of  bread  alone  that  we  can  find 
a  solution  for  the  social  problem.  More  important 
for  the  happiness  of  man  is  the  hope  we  cherish  of 
eventually  bringing  about  a  reign  of  justice  and 
equality  upon  earth. 

It  is  evident  that,  in  order  to  render  practical  aid 
to  this  class,  we  must  live  among  them,  understand 
their  needs,  acquaint  ourselves  with  their  desires, 
their  hopes,  their  aspirations,  their  fears.  We  must 
discover  and  adopt  their  point  of  view,  put  ourselves 
in  their  surroundings,  assume  their  burdens,  unite 
with  them  in  their  daily  effort.  In  this  way  alone, 
and  not  by  forcing  upon  them  a  preconceived  ideal, 
can  we  do  them  real  good,  can  we  help  them  to  find 
a  moral,  spiritual,  esthetic  standard  suited  to  their 
condition  of  life.  Such  an  undertaking  is  impossible 
for  most.  Sure  of  its  utility,  inspired  by  its  prac- 
tical importance,  I  determined  to  make  the  sacrifice 
it  entailed  and  to  learn  by  experience  and  observa- 
tion what  these  could  teach.  I  set  out  to  surmount 
physical  fatigue  and  revulsion,  to  place  my  intellect 
and  sympathy  in  contact  as  a  medium  between  the 
working  girl  who  wants  help  and  the  more  fortu- 
nately situated  who  wish  to  help  her.  In  the  papers 
which  follow  I  have  endeavoured  to  give  a  faithful 
picture  of  things  as  they  exist,  both  in  and  out  of 
the  factory,  and  to  suggest  remedies  that  occurred 


INTRODUCTORY  5 

to  me  as  practical.  My  desire  is  to  act  as  a  mouth- 
piece for  the  woman  labourer.  I  assumed  her  mode 
of  existence  with  the  hope  that  I  might  put  into 
words  her  cry  for  help.  It  has  been  my  purpose 
to  find  out  what  her  capacity  is  for  suffering  and  for 
joy  as  compared  with  ours ;  what  tastes  she  has,  what 
ambitions,  what  the  equipment  of  woman  is  as  com- 
pared to  that  of  man :  her  equipment  as  determined, 

i  st.     By  nature, 

2d.      By  family  life, 

3d.      By  social  laws; 

what  her  strength  is  and  what  her  weaknesses  are 
as  compared  with  the  woman  of  leisure ;  and  finally, 
to  discern  the  tendencies  of  a  new  society  as  mani- 
fested by  its  working  girls. 

After  many  weeks  spent  among  them  as  one  of 
them  I  have  come  away  convinced  that  no  earnest 
effort  for  their  betterment  is  fruitless.  I  am  hopeful 
that  my  faithful  descriptions  will  perhaps  suggest, 
to  the  hearts  of  those  who  read,  some  ways  of 
rendering  personal  and  general  help  to  that 
class  who,  through  the  sordidness  and  squalour  of 
their  material  surroundings,  the  limitation  of  their 
opportunities,  are  condemned  to  slow  death — 
mental,  moral,  physical  death !  If  into  their 
prison's  midst,  after  the  reading  of  these  lines,  a 
single  death  pardon  should  be  carried,  my  work 
shall  not  have  been  in  vain. 


IN  A   PITTSBURG   FACTORY 


CHAPTER  II 

IN   A    PlTTSBURG   FACTORY 

IN  "choosing  the  scene  for  my  first  experiences,  I 
decided  upon  Pittsburg,  as  being  an  industrial  centre 
whose  character  was  determined  by  its  working 
population.  It  exceeds  all  other  cities  of  the  country 
in  the  variety  and  extent  of  its  manufacturing 
products.  Of  its  321,616  inhabitants,  100,000  are 
labouring  men  employed  in  the  mills.  Add  to  these 
the  great  number  of  women  and  girls  who  work  in  the 
factories  and  clothing  shops,  and  the  character  of  the 
place  becomes  apparent  at  a  glance.  There  is,  more- 
over, another  reason  which  guided  me  toward  this 
Middle  West  town  without  its  like.  This  land  which 
we  are  accustomed  to  call  democratic,  is  in  reality 
composed  of  a  multitude  of  kingdoms  whose  despots 
are  the  employers — the  multi-millionaire  patrons — 
and  whose  serfs  are  the  labouring  men  and  women. 
The  rulers  are  invested  with  an  authority  and  a 
power  not  unlike  those  possessed  by  the  early  barons, 
the  feudal  lords,  the  Lorenzo  de  Medicis,  the  Cheops ; 
but  with  this  difference,  that  whereas  Pharaoh  by 
his  unique  will  controlled  a  thousand  slaves,  the  steel 
magnate  uses,  for  his  own  ends  also,  thousands  of 

9 


io  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

separate  wills.  It  was  a  submissive  throng  who  built 
the  pyramids.  The  mills  which  produce  half  the 
steel  the  world  requires  *are  run  by  a  collection  of 
individuals.  Civilization  has  undergone  a  change. 
The  multitudes  once  worked  for  one ;  now  each  man 
works  for  himself  first  and  for  a  master  secondarily. 
In  our  new  society  where  tradition  plays  no  part, 
where  the  useful  is  paramount,  where  business 
asserts  itself  over  art  and  beauty,  where  material 
needs  are  the  first  to  be  satisfied,  and  where  the 
country's  unclaimed  riches  are  our  chief  incentive 
to  effort,  it  is  not. uninteresting  to  find  an  analogy 
with  the  society  in  Italy  which  produced  the  Renais- 
sance. Diametrically  opposed  in  their  ideals,  they 
have  a  common  spirit.  In  Italy  the  rebirth  was  of 
the  love  of  art,  and  of  classic  forms,  the  desire  to 
embellish — all  that  was  inspired  by  culture  of  the 
beautiful ;  the  Renaissance  in  America  is  the  rebirth 
of  man's  originality  in  the  invention  of  the  useful, 
the  virgin  power  of  man's  wits  as  quickened  in  the 
crude  struggle  for  life.  Florence  is  par  excellence 
the  place  where  we  can  study  the  Italian  Renaissance ; 
Pittsburg  appealed  to  me  as  a  most  favourable  spot 
to  watch  the  American  Renaissance,  the  enlivening 
of  energies  which  give  value  to  a  man  devoid  of 
education,  energies  which  in  their  daily  exercise  with 
experience  generate  a  new  force,  a  force  that  makes 
our  country  what  it  is,  industrially  and  economically. 
So  it  was  toward  Pittsburg  that  I  first  directed  my 


IN   A   PITTSBURG   FACTORY  u 

steps,  but  before  leaving  New  York  I  assumed  my 
disguise.  In  the  Parisian  clothes  I  am  accustomed 
to  wear  I  present  the  familiar  outline  of  any 
woman  of  the  world.  With  the  aid  of  coarse  woolen 
garments,  a  shabby  felt  sailor  hat,  a  cheap  piece  of 
fur,  a  knitted  shawl  and  gloves  I  am  transformed 
into  a  working  girl  of  the  ordinary  type.  I  was  born 
and  bred  and  brought  up  in  the  world  of  the  for- 
tunate— I  am  going  over  now  into  the  world  of  the 
unfortunate.  I  am  to  share  their  burdens,  to  lead 
their  lives,  to  be  present  as  one  of  them  at  the 
spectacle  of  their  sufferings  and  joys,  their  ambitions 
and  sorrows. 

I  get  no  farther  than  the  depot  when  I  observe 
that  I  am  being  treated  as  though  I  were  ignorant 
and  lacking  in  experience.  As  a  rule  the  gateman 
says  a  respectful  "To  the  right"  or  "To  the  left," 
and  trusts  to  his  well-dressed  hearer's  intelligence. 
A  word  is  all  that  a  moment's  hesitation  calls  forth. 
To  the  working  girl  he  explains  as  follows:  "Now 
you  take  your  ticket,  do  you  understand,  and  I'll 
pick  up  your  money  for  you ;  you  don't  need  to  pay 
anything  for  your  ferry — just  put  those  three  cents 
back  in  your  pocket-book  and  go  down  there  to 
where  that  gentleman  is  standing  and  he'll  direct 
you  to  your  train." 

This  without  my  having  asked  a  question.  I  had 
divested  myself  of  a  certain  authority  along  with  my 
good  clothes,  and  I  had  become  one  of  a  class  which, 


12  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

as  the  gateman  had  found  out,  and  as  I  find  out 
later  myself,  are  devoid  of  all  knowledge  of  the 
world  and,  aside  from  their  manual  training,  igno- 
rant on  all  subjects. 

My  train  is  three  hours  late,  which  brings  me  at 
about  noon  to  Pittsburg.  I  have  not  a  friend  or  an 
acquaintance  within  hundreds  of  miles.  With  my 
bag  in  my  hand  I  make  my  way  through  the  dark, 
busy  streets  to  the  Young  Women's  Christian 
Association.  It  is  down  near  a  frozen  river.  The 
wind  blows  sharp  and  biting  over  the  icy  water ;  the 
streets  are  covered  with  snow,  and  over  the  snow  the 
soot  falls  softly  like  a  mantle  of  perpetual  mourning. 
There  is  almost  no  traffic.  Innumerable  tramways 
ring  their  way  up  and  down  wire-lined  avenues; 
occasionally  a  train  of  freight  cars  announces  itself 
with  a  warning  bell  in  the  city's  midst.  It  is  a  black 
town  of  toil,  one  man  in  every  three  a  labourer. 
They  have  no  need  for  vehicles  of  pleasure.  The 
trolleys  take  them  to  their  work,  the  trains  trans- 
port the  products  of  the  mills. 

I  hear  all  languages  spoken :  this  prodigious  town 
is  a  Western  bazaar  where  the  nations  assemble  not 
to  buy  but  to  be  employed.  The  stagnant  scum  of 
other  countries  floats  hither  to  be  purified  in  the 
fierce  bouillon  of  live  opportunity.  It  is  a  cosmo- 
politan procession  that  passes  me:  the  dusky 
Easterner  with  a  fez  of  Astrakhan,  the  gentle-eyed 
Italian  with  a  shawl  of  gay  colours,  the  loose-lipped . 


IN   A    PITTSBURG    FACTORY  13 

Hungarian,  the  pale,  mystic  Swede,  the  German 
with  wife  and  children  hanging  on  his  arm. 

In  this  giant  bureau  of  labour  all  nationalities 
gather,  united  by  a  common  bond  of  hope,  animated 
by  a  common  chance  of  prosperity,  kindred  through 
a  common  effort,  fellow-citizens  in  a  new  land  of 
freedom. 

At  the  central  office  of  the  Young  Women's 
Christian  Association  I  receive  what  attention  a 
busy  secretary  can  spare  me.  She  questions  and  I 
answer  as  best  I  can. 

"What  is  it  you  want  ?" 

"Board  and  work  in  a  factory." 

"Have  you  ever  worked  in  a  factory?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Have  you  ever  done  any  housework?" 

She  talks  in  the  low,  confidential  tone  of  those 
accustomed  to  reforming  prisoners  and  reasoning 
with  the  poor. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  have  done  housework." 

"What  did  you  make  ?" 

"Twelve  dollars  d  month." 

"I  can  get  you  a  place  where  you  will  have  a 
room  to  yourself  and  fourteen  dollars  a  month.  Do 
you  want  it?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Are  you  making  anything  now?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Can  you  afford  to  pay  board  ?" 


14  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

"Yes,  as  I  hope  to  get  work  at  once." 

She  directs  me  to  a  boarding  place  which  is  at 
the  same  time  a  refuge  for  the  friendless  and  a 
shelter  for  waifs.  The  newly  arrived  population  of 
the  fast -growing  city  seems  unfamiliar  with  the 
address  I  carry  written  on  a  card.  I  wait  on  cold 
street  corners,  I  travel  over  miles  of  half -settled 
country,  long  stretches  of  shanties  and  saloons 
huddled  close  to  the  trolley  line.  The  thermometer 
is  at  zero.  Toward  three  o'clock  I  find  the  waif 
boarding-house. 

The  matron  is  in  the  parlour  hovering  over  a 
gas  stove.  She  has  false  hair,  false  teeth,  false 
jewelry,  and  the  dry,  crabbed,  inquisitive  manner 
of  the  idle  who  are  entrusted  with  authority.  She 
is  there  to  direct  others  and  do  nothing  herself,  to 
be  cross  and  make  herself  dreaded.  In  the  distance 
I  can  hear  a  shrill,  nasal  orchestra  of  children's 
voices.  I  am  cold  and  hungry.  I  have  as  yet  no 
job.  The  noise,  the  sordidness,  the  witchlike  matron 
annoy  me.  I  have  a  sudden  impulse  to  flee,  to  seek 
warmth  and  food  and  proper  shelter — to  snap  my 
fingers  at  experience  and  be  grateful  I  was  born 
among  the  fortunate.  Something  within  me  calls 
Courage  !  I  take  a  room  at  three  dollars  a  week 
with  board,  put  my  things  in  it,  and  while  my  feet 
yet  ache  with  cold  I  start  to  find  a  factory,  a 
pickle  factory,  which,  the  matron  tells  me,  is  run 
by  a  Christian  gentleman. 


IN  A   PITTSBURG  FACTORY  15 

I  have  felt  timid  and  even  overbold  at  different 
moments  in  my  life,  but  never  so  audacious  as 
on  entering  a  factory  door  marked  in  gilt  letters: 
"Women  Employees." 

The  Cerberus  between  me  and  the  fulfilment 
of  my  purpose  is  a  gray-haired  timekeeper  with 
kindly  eyes.  He  sits  in  a  glass  cage  and  about  him 
are  a  score  or  more  of  clocks  all  ticking  soundly  and 
all  surrounded  by  an  extra  dial  of  small  numbers 
running  from  one  to  a  thousand.  Each  number 
means  a  workman— each  tick  of  the  clock  a  moment 
of  his  life  gone  in  the  service  of  the  pickle  company. 
I  rap  on  the  window  of  the  glass  cage.  It  opens. 

"Do  you  need  any  girls?"  I  ask,  trying  not  to 
show  my  emotion. 

"Ever  worked  in  a  factory?" 

"No,  sir ;  but  I'm  very  handy." 

"What  have  you  done?" 

"Housework,"  I  respond  with  conviction,  begin- 
ning to  believe  it  myself. 

"Well,"  he  says,  looking  at  me,  "they  need  help 
up  in  the  bottling  department ;  but  I  don't  know  as  it 
would  pay  you — they  don't  give  more  than  sixty 
or  seventy  cents  a  day." 

' '  I  am  awfully  anxious  for  work, ' '  I  say.  ' '  Couldn't 
I  begin  and  get  raised,  perhaps?" 

"Surely — there  is  always  room  for  those  who 
show  the  right  spirit.  You  come  in  to-morrow 
morning  at  a  quarter  before  seven.  You  can  try  it, 


16  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

and  you  mustn't  get  discouraged;  there's  plenty  of 
work  for  good  workers." 

The  blood  tingles  through  my  cold  hands.  My 
heart  is  lighter.  I  have  not  come  in  vain.  I  have  a 
place ! 

When  I  get  back  to  the  boarding-house  it  is 
twilight.  The  voices  I  had  heard  and  been  annoyed 
by  have  materialized.  Before  the  gas  stove  there 
are  nine  small  individuals  dressed  in  a  strange  com- 
bination of  uniform  checked  aprons  and  patent 
leather  boots  worn  out  and  discarded  by  the  babies 
of  the  fortunate.  The  small  feet  they  encase  are 
crossed,  and  the  freshly  washed  faces  are  demure,  as 
the  matron  with  the  wig  frowns  down  into  a  news- 
paper from  which  she  now  and  then  hisses  a  com- 
mand to  order.  Three  miniature  members  are 
rocking  violently  in  tiny  rocking  chairs. 

"Quit  rocking!"  the  false  mother  cries  at  them. 
"You  make  my  head  ache.  Most  of  'em  have  no 
parents,''  she  explains  to  me.  "None  of  'em  have 
homes." 

Here  they  are,  a  small  kingdom,  not  wanted, 
unwelcome,  unprovided  for,  growled  at  and  grum- 
bled over.  Yet  each  is  developing  in  spite  of  chance ; 
each  is  determining  hour  by  hour  his  heritage  from 
unknown  parents.  The  matron  leaves  us;  the 
rocking  begins  again.  Conversation  is  animated. 
The  three-year-old  baby  bears  the  name  of  a  three- 
year-old  hero.  This  "Dewey"  complains  in  a  plain- 


IN   A    PITTSBURG    FACTORY  17 

tive  voice  of  a  too  long  absent  mother.  His  rosy 
lips  are  pursed  out  even  with  his  nose.  Again  and 
again  he  reiterates  the  refrain:  "My  mamma  don't 
never  come  to  see  me.  She  don't  bring  me  no 
toys."  And  then  with  pride,  "My  mamma  buys  rice 
and  tea  and  lots  of  things,"  and  dashing  to  the  win- 
dow as  a  trolley  rattles  by,  "My  mamma  comes  in  the 
street  cars,  only,"  sadly,  "she  don't  never  come." 

Not  one  of  them  has  forgotten  what  fate  has 
willed  them  to  do  without.  At  first  they  look 
shrinkingly  toward  my  outstretched  hand.  Is  it 
coming  to  administer  some  punishment  ?  Little  by 
little  they  are  reassured,  and,  gaining  in  confidence, 
they  sketch  for  me  in  disconnected  chapters  the 
short  outlines  of  their  lives. 

"I've  been  to  the  hospital,"  says  one,  "and  so's 
Lily.  I  drank  a  lot  of  washing  soda  and  it  made  me 
sick." 

Lily  begins  her  hospital  reminiscences.  "I  had 
typhoy  fever — I  was  in  the  childun's  ward 
awful  long,  and  one  night  they  turned  down  the 
lights — it  was  just  evening — and  a  man  came  in  and 
he  took  one  of  the  babies  up  in  his  arms,  and  we  all 
said,  'What's  the  row?  What's  the  row?'  and  he 
says  'Hush,  the  baby's  dead.'  And  out  in  the  hall 
there  was  something  white,  and  he  carried  the  baby 
and  put  it  in  the  white  thing,  and  the  baby  had  a 
doll  that  could  talk,  and  he  put  that  in  the  white 
thing  too,  right  alongside  o'  the  dead  baby.  Another 


1 8  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

time,"  Lily  goes  on,  "there  was  a  baby  in  a  crib 
alongside  of  mine,  and  one  day  he  was  takin*  his 
bottle,  and  all  of  a  suddint  he  choked,  and  he  kept 
on  chokin'  and  then  he  died,  and  he  was  still  takin' 
his  bottle." 

Lily  is  five.  I  see  in  her  and  in  her  companions 
a  familiarity  not  only  with  the  mysteries  but  with 
the  stern  realities  of  life.  They  have  an  under- 
standing look  at  the  mention  of  death,  drunken- 
ness and  all  domestic  difficulties  or  irregularities. 
Their  vocabulary  and  conversation  image  the  vio- 
lent and  brutal  side  of  existence — the  only  one  with 
which  they  are  acquainted. 

At  bedtime  I  find  my  way  upward  through  dark 
and  narrow  stairs  that  open  into  a  long  room  with  a 
slanting  roof.  It  serves  as  nursery  and  parlour. 
In  the  dull  light  of  a  stove  and  an  oil  lamp  four  or 
five  women  are  seated  with  babies  on  their  knees. 
They  have  the  meek  look  of  those  who  doom  them- 
selves to  acceptance  of  misfortune,  the  flat,  resigned 
figures  of  the  overworked.  Their  loose  woolen  jackets 
hang  over  their  gaunt  shoulders ;  their  straight  hair 
is  brushed  hard  and  smooth  against  high  foreheads. 
One  baby  lies  a  comfortable  bundle  in  its  mother's 
arms ;  one  is  black  in  the  face  after  a  spasm  of  cough- 
ing ;  one  howls  its  woes  through  a  scarlet  mask.  The 
corners  of  the  room  are  filled  with  the  drones — 
those  who  "work  for  a  bite  of  grub."  The  cook,  her 
washing  done,  has  piled  her  aching  bones  in  a  heap ; 


IN   A    PITTSBURG   FACTORY  19 

her  drawn  face  waits  like  an  indicator  for  some  fresh 
signal  to  a  new  fatigue.  Mary,  the  woman-of-all- 
work,  who  has  spent  more  than  one  night  within  a 
prison's  walls,  has  long  ago  been  brutalized  by  the 
persistence  of  life  in  spite  of  crime ;  her  gray  hair 
ripples  like  sand  under  receding  waves ;  her  profile 
is  strong  and  fine,  but  her  eyes  have  a  film  of 
misery  over  them — dull  and  silent,  they  deaden 
her  face.  And  Jennie,  the  charwoman,  is  she  a 
cripple  or  has  toil  thus  warped  her  body?  Her 
arms,  long  and  withered,  swing  like  the  broken 
branches  of  a  gnarled  tree ;  her  back  is  twisted  and 
her  head  bowed  toward  earth.  A  stranger  to  rest, 
she  seems  a  mechanical  creature  wound  up  for 
work  and  run  down  in  the  middle  of  a  task. 

What  could  be  hoped  for  in  such  surroundings? 
With  every  effort  to  be  clean  the  dirt  accumulates 
faster  than  it  can  be  washed  away.  It  was  impos- 
sible, I  found  by  my  own  experience,  to  be  really 
clean.  There  was  a  total  absence  of  beauty  in 
everything — not  a  line  of  grace,  not  a  pleasing  sound, 
not  an  agreeable  odour  anywhere.  One  could  get 
used  to  this  ugliness,  become  unconscious  even  of 
the  acrid  smells  that  pervade  the  tenement.  It 
was  probable  my  comrades  felt  at  no  time  the 
discomfort  I  did,  but  the  harm  done  them  is  not  the 
physical  suffering  their  condition  causes,  but  the 
moral  and  spiritual  bondage  in  which  it  holds  them. 
They  are  not  a  class  of  drones  made  differently 


20  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

from  us.  I  saw  nothing  to  indicate  that  they  were 
not  born  with  like  capacities  to  ours.  As  our  bodies 
accustom  themselves  to  luxury  and  cleanliness, 
theirs  grow  hardened  to  deprivation  and  filth.  As 
our  souls  develop  with  the  advantages  of  all  that 
constitutes  an  ideal — an  intellectual,  esthetic  and 
moral  ideal — their  souls  diminish  under  the  oppres- 
sion of  a  constant  physical  effort  to  meet 
material  demands.  The  fact  that  they  become 
physically  callous  to  what  we  consider  unbearable 
is  used  as  an  argument  for  their  emotional  insensi- 
bility. I  hold  such  an  argument  as  false.  From  all 
I  saw  I  am  convinced  that,  given  their  relative  prepa- 
ration for  suffering  and  for  pleasure,  their  griefs  and 
their  joys  are  the  same  as  ours  in  kind  and  in  degree. 

When  one  is  accustomed  to  days  begun  at  will  by 
the  summons  of  a  tidy  maid,  waking  oneself  at  half- 
past  five  means  to  be  guardian  of  the  hours  until  this 
time  arrives.  Once  up,  the  toilet  I  made  in  the 
nocturnal  darkness  of  my  room  can  best  be  described 
by  the  matron's  remark  to  me  as  I  went  to  bed :  "If 
you  want  to  wash,"  she  said,  "you'd  better  wash 
now ;  you  can't  have  no  water  in  your  room,  and  there 
won't  be  nobody  up  when  you  leave  in  the  morning." 
My  evening  bath  is  supplemented  by  a  whisk  of  the 
sponge  at  five. 

Without  it  is  black — a  more  intense  black  than 
night's  beginning,  when  all  is  astir.  The  streets  are 


IN  A    PITTSBURG  FACTORY  21 

silent,  an  occasional  train  whirls  past,  groups  of  men 
hurry  hither  and  thither  swinging  their  arms,  rub- 
bing their  ears  in  the  freezing  air.  Many  of  them 
have  neither  overcoats  nor  gloves.  Now  and  then 
a  woman  sweeps  along.  Her  skirts  have  the  same 
swing  as  my  own  short  ones;  under  her  arm  she 
carries  a  newspaper  bundle  whose  meaning  I  have 
grown  to  know.  My  own  contains  a  midday  meal: 
two  cold  fried  oysters,  two  dried  preserve  sand- 
wiches, a  pickle  and  an  orange.  My  way  lies  across 
a  bridge.  In  the  first  gray  of  dawn  the  river  shows 
black  under  its  burden  of  ice.  Along  its  troubled 
banks  innumerable  chimneys  send  forth  their  hot 
activity,  clouds  of  seething  flames,  waving  arms  of 
smoke  and  steam — a  symbol  of  spent  energy,  of  the 
lives  consumed  and  vanishing  again,  the  sparks  that 
shine  an  instant  against  the  dark  sky  and  are  spent 
forever. 

As  I  draw  nearer  the  factory  I  move  with  a  stream 
of  fellow  workers  pouring  toward  the  glass  cage  of  the 
timekeeper.  He  greets  me  and  starts  me  on  my 
upward  journey  with  a  wish  that  I  shall  not  get  dis- 
couraged, a  reminder  that  the  earnest  worker  always 
makes  a  way  for  herself. 

"What  will  you  do  about  your  name?  "  "  What 
will  you  do  with  your  hair  and  your  hands?" 
"  How  can  you  deceive  people?"  These  are  some 
of  the  questions  I  had  been  asked  by  my  friends. 

Before  any  one  had  cared  or  needed  to  know  my 


22  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

name  it  was  morning  of  .the  second  day,  and  my 
assumed  name  seemed  by  that  time  the  only  one  I 
had  ever  had.  As  to  hair  and  hands,  a  half-day's 
work  suffices  for  their  undoing.  And  my  disguise  is 
so  successful  I  have  deceived  not  only  others  but 
myself.  I  have  become  with  desperate  reality  a 
factory  girl,  alone,  inexperienced,  friendless.  I  am 
making  $4.20  a  week  and  spending  $3  of  this  for 
board  alone,  and  I  dread  not  being  strong  enough 
to  keep  my  job.  I  climb  endless  stairs,  am  given 
a  white  cap  and  an  apron,  and  my  life  as  a  factory 
girl  begins.  I  become  part  of  the  ceaseless, 
unrelenting  mechanism  kept  in  motion  by  the  poor. 

The  factory  I  have  chosen  has  "been  built  contem- 
poraneously with  reforms  and  sanitary  inspection. 
There  are  clean,  wjell-aired  rooms,  hot  and  cold  water 
with  which  to  wash,  places  to  put  one's  hat  and 
coat,  an  obligatory  uniform  for  regular  employees, 
hygienic  and  moral  advantages  of  all  kinds,  ample 
space  for  work  without  crowding. 

Side  by  side  in  rows  of  tens  or  twenties  we  stand 
before  our  tables  waiting  for  the  seven  o'clock  whistle 
to  blow.  In  their  white  caps  and  blue  frocks  and 
aprons,  the  girls  in  my  department,  like  any  unfa- 
miliar class,  all  look  alike.  My  first  task  is  an  easy 
one ;  anybody  could  do  it.  On  the  stroke  of  seven  my 
fingers  fly.  I  place  a  lid  of  paper  in  a  tin  jar-top, 
over  it  a  cork ;  this  I  press  down  with  both  hands, 
tossing  the  cover,  when  done,  into  a  pan.  In  spite 


IN   A   PITTSBURG    FACTORY  23 

of  myself  I  hurry;  I  cannot  work  fast  enough — I 
outdo  my  companions.  How  can  they  be  so  slow? 
I  have  finished  three  dozen  while  they  are  doing  two. 
Every  nerve,  every  muscle  is  offering  some  of  its 
energy.  Over  in  one  corner  the  machinery  for  seal- 
ing the  jars  groans  and  roars ;  the  mingled  sounds  of 
filling,  washing,  wiping,  packing,  comes  to  my  eager 
ears  as  an  accompaniment  for  the  simple  work 
assigned  to  me.  One  hour  passes,  two,  three  hours ; 
I  fit  ten,  twenty,  fifty  dozen  caps,  and  still  my  energy 
keeps  up. 

The  forewoman  is  a  pretty  girl  of  twenty.  Her 
restless  eyes,  her  metallic  voice  are  the  messengers 
who  would  know  all.  I  am  afraid  of  her.  I  long  to 
please  her.  I  am  sure  she  must  be  saying  "How 
well  the  new  girl  works." 

Conversation  is  possible  among  those  whose  work 
has  become  mechanical.  Twice  I  am  sent  to*  the 
storeroom  for  more  caps.  In  these  brief  moments 
my  companions  volunteer  a  word  of  themselves. 

"  I  was  out  to  a  ball  last  night,"  the  youngest  one 
says.  "  I  stayed  so  late  I  didn't  feel  a  bit  like  getting 
up  this  morning." 

"That's  nothing,"  another  retorts.  "There's 
hardly  an  evening  we  don't  have  company  at  the 
house,  music  or  somethin' ;  I  never  get  enough  rest." 

And  on  my  second  trip  the  pale  creature  with  me 
says: 

"I'm  in  deep  mourning.     My  mother  died  last 


24  THE    WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

Friday  week.  It's  awful  lonely  without  her.  Seems 
as  though  I'd  never  get  over  missing  her.  I  miss 
her  dreadful.  Perhaps  by  and  by  I'll  get  used  to 
it." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  the  answer  comes  from  a 
girl  with  short  skirts.  "You'll  never  get  used  to 
it.  My  ma's  been  dead  eight  years  next  month 
and  I  dreamt  about  her  all  last  night.  I  can't  get 
her  out  o'  me  mind." 

Born  into  dirt  and  ugliness,  disfigured  by  effort, 
they  have  the  same  heritage  as  we :  joys  and  sorrows, 
grief  and  laughter.  With  them  as  with  us  gaiety  is 
up  to  its  old  tricks,  tempting  from  graver  rivals, 
making  duty  an  alien.  Grief  is  doing  her  ugly  work : 
hollowing  round  cheeks,  blackening  bright  eyes, 
putting  her  weight  of  leaden  loneliness  in  hearts 
heretofore  light  with  youth. 

When  I  have  fitted  no  dozen  tin  caps  the  fore- 
woman comes  and  changes  my  job.  She  tells  me  to 
haul  and  load  up  some  heavy  crates  with  pickle  jars. 
I  am  wheeling  these  back  and  forth  when  the  twelve 
o'clock  whistle  blows.  Up  to  that  time  the  room  has 
been  one  big  dynamo,  each  girl  a  part  of  it.  With 
the  first  moan  of  the  noon  signal  the  dynamo  comes 
to  life.  It  is  hungry ;  it  has  friends  and  favourites — 
news  to  tell.  We  herd  down  to  a  big  dining-room 
and  take  our  places,  five  hundred  of  us  in  all.  The 
newspaper  bundles  are  unfolded.  The  me'nu  varies 
little:  bread  and  jam,  cake  and  pickles,  occasionally 


IN    A    PITTSBURG   FACTORY  25 

a  sausage,  a  bit  of  cheese  or  a  piece  of  stringy  cold 
meat.  In  ten  minutes  the  repast  is  over.  The 
dynamo  has  been  fed;  there  are  twenty  minutes  of 
leisure  spent  in  dancing,  singing,  resting,  and 
conversing  chiefly  about  young  men  and  "socia- 
bles." 

At  12:30  sharp  the  whistle  draws  back  the  life 
it  has  given.  I  return  to  my  job.  My  shoulders 
are  beginning  to  ache.  My  hands  are  stiff, 
my  thumbs  almost  blistered.  The  enthusiasm  I 
had  felt  is  giving  way  to  a  numbing  weariness.  I 
look  at  my  companions  now  in  amazement.  How 
can  they  keep  on  so  steadily,  so  swiftly  ?  Cases  are 
emptied  and  refilled;  bottles  are  labeled,  stamped 
and  rolled  away ;  jars  are  washed,  wiped  and  loaded, 
and  still  there  are  more  cases,  more  jars,  more 
bottles.  Oh  !  the  monotony  of  it,  the  never-ending 
supply  of  work  to  be  begun  and  finished,  begun  and 
finished,  begun  and  finished !  Now  and  then  some 
one  cuts  a  finger  or  runs  a  splinter  under  the  flesh ; 
once  the  mustard  machine  broke — and  still  the  work 
goes  on,  on,  on !  New  girls  like  myself,  who  had 
worked  briskly  in  the  morning,  are  beginning  to 
loiter.  Out  of  the  washing-tins  hands  come  up  red 
and  swollen,  only  to  be  plunged  again  into  hot  dirty 
water.  Would  the  whistle  never  blow?  Once  I 
pause  an  instant,  my  head  dazed  and  weary,  my  ears 
strained  to  bursting  with  the  deafening  noise. 
Quickly  a  voice  whispers  in  my  ear : 


26  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

"You'd  better  not  stand  there  doin'  nothin'.  If 
she  catches  you  she'll  give  it  to  you." 

On !  on  !  bundle  of  pains !  For  you  this  is  one 
day's  work  in  a  thousand  of  peace  and  beauty.  For 
those  about  you  this  is  the  whole  of  daylight,  this  is 
the  winter  dawn  and  twilight,  this  is  the  glorious 
summer  noon,  this  is  all  day,  this  is  every  day,  this 
is  life.  Rest  is  only  a  bit  of  a  dream,  snatched  when 
the  sleeper's  aching  body  lets  her  close  her  eyes  for 
a  moment  in  oblivion. 

Out  beyond  the  chimney  tops  the  snowfields  and 
the  river  turn  from  gray  to  pink,  and  still  the  work 
goes  on.  Each  crate  I  lift  grows  heavier,  each  bottle 
weighs  an  added  pound.  Now  and  then  some  one 
lends  a  helping  hand. 

"Tired,  ain't  you?  This  is  your  first  day,  ain't 
it?" 

The  acid  smell  of  vinegar  and  mustard  penetrates 
everywhere.  My  ankles  cry  out  pity.  Oh !  to  sit 
down  an  instant ! 

"Tidy  up  the  table,"  some  one  tells  me;  "we're 
soongoin'  home." 

Home  !  I  think  of  the  stifling  fumes  of  fried  food, 
the  dim  haze  in  the  kitchen  where  my  supper  waits 
me;  the  children,  the  band  of  drifting  workers,  the 
shrill,  complaining  voice  of  the  hired  mother.  This 
is  home. 

I  sweep  and  set  to  rights,  limping,  lurching  along. 
At  last  the  whistle  blows  !  In  a  swarm  we  report ; 


IN  A   PITTSBURG  FACTORY  27 

we  put  on  our  things  and  get  away  into  the  cool 
night  air.  I  have  stood  ten  hours;  I  have  fitted 
1,300  corks;  I  have  hauled  and  loaded  4,000  jars 
of  pickles.  My  pay  is  seventy  cents. 

The  impressions  of  my  first  day  crowd  pell-mell 
upon  my  mind.  The  sound  of  the  machinery  dins 
in  my  ears.  I  can  hear  the  sharp,  nasal  voices  of  the 
forewoman  and  the  girls  shouting  questions  and 
answers. 

A  sudden  recollection  comes  to  me  of  a 
Dahomayan  family  I  had  watched  at  work  in  their 
hut  during  the  Paris  Exhibition.  There  was  a 
magic  spell  in  their  voices  as  they  talked  together; 
the  sounds  they  made  had  the  cadence  of  the  wind 
in  the  trees,  the  running  of  water,  the  song  of  birds : 
they  echoed  unconsciously  the  caressing  melodies 
of  nature.  My  factory  companions  drew  their  vocal 
inspiration  from  the  bedlam  of  civilization,  the 
rasping  and  pounding  of  machinery,  the  din  which 
they  must  out-din  to  be  heard. 

For  the  two  days  following  my  first  experience  I 
am  unable  to  resume  work.  Fatigue  has  swept 
through  my  blood  like  a  fever.  Every  bone  and 
joint  has  a  clamouring  ache.  I  pass  the  time  visit- 
ing other  factories  and  hunting  for  a  place  to  board 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  pickling  house.  At  the 
cork  works  they  do  not  need  girls;  at  the  cracker 
company  I  can  get  a  job,  but  the  hours  are  longer, 
the  advantages  less  than  where  I  am;  at  the  broom 


28  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

factory  they  employ  only  men.  I  decide  to  con- 
tinue with  tin  caps  and  pickle  jars. 

My  whole  effort  now  is  to  find  a  respectable 
boarding-house.  I  start  out,  the  thermometer  near 
zero,  the  snow  falling.  I  wander  and  ask,  wander 
and  ask.  Up  and  down  the  black  streets  running 
parallel  and  at  right  angles  with  the  factory  I  tap 
and  ring  at  one  after  another  of  the  two-story  red- 
brick houses.  More  than  half  of  them  are  empty, 
tenant  less  during  the  working  hours.  What  hope 
is  there  for  family  life  near  the  hearth  which  is 
abandoned  at  the  factory's  first  call  ?  The  sociable- 
ness,  the  discipline,  the  division  of  responsibility 
make  factory  work  a  dangerous  rival  to  domestic 
care.  There  is  something  in  the  modern  conditions 
of  labour  which  act  magnetically  upon  American 
girls,  impelling  them  to  work  not  for  bread  alone, 
but  for  clothes  and  finery  as  well.  Each  class  in 
modern  society  knows  a  menace  to  its  homes:  sport, 
college  education,  machinery — each  is  a  factor  in  the 
gradual  transformation  of  family  life  from  a  united 
domestic  group  to  a.  collection  of  individuals  with 
separate  interests  and  aims  outside  the  home. 

I  pursue  my  search.  It  is  the  dinner  hour.  At  last 
a  narrow  door  opens,  letting  a  puff  of  hot  rank  air 
blow  upon  me  as  I  stand  in  the  vestibule  questioning : 
"Do  you  take  boarders  ?" 

The  woman  who  answers  stands  with  a  spoon 
in  her  hand,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  a  rear  room 


IN   A    PITTSBURG    FACTORY  29 

where  a  stove,  laden  with  frying-pans,  glows  and 
sputters. 

"Come  in,"  she  says,  "and  get  warm." 
I  walk  into  a  front  parlour  with  furniture  that 
evidently  serves  domestic  as  well  as  social  purposes. 
There  is  a  profusion  of  white  knitted  tidies  and 
portieres  that  exude  an  odour  of  cooking.  Before 
the  fire  a  workingman  sits  in  a  blue  shirt  and  over- 
alls. Fresh  from  the  barber's  hands,  he  has  a  clean 
mask  marked  by  the  razor's  edge.  Already  I  feel 
at  home. 

"Want  board,  do  you?"  the  woman  asks.  "Well, 
we  ain't  got  no  place;  we're  always  right  full 

up." 

My  disappointment  is  keen.  Regretfully  I  leave 
the  fire  and  start  on  again. 

"I  guess  you'll  have  some  trouble  in  finding  what 
you  want,"  the  woman  calls  to  me  on  her  way  back 
to  the  kitchen,  as  I  go  out. 

The  answer  is  everywhere  the  same,  with  slight 
variations.  Some  take  "mealers"  only,  some  only 
"roomers,"  some  "only  gentlemen."  I  begin  to 
understand  it.  Among  the  thousands  of  families 
who  live  in  the  city  on  account  of  the  work  provided 
by  the  mills,  there  are  girls  enough  to  fill  the  factories. 
There  is  no  influx  such  as  creates  in  a  small  town  the 
necessity  for  working-girl  boarding-houses.  There 
is  an  ample  supply  of  hands  from  the  existing  homes. 
There  is  the  same  difference  between  city  and 


30  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

country  factory  life  that  there  is  between  university 
life  in  a  capital  and  in  a  country  town. 

A  sign  on  a  neat-looking  corner  house  attracts 
me.  I  rap  and  continue  to  rap ;  the  door  is  opened 
at  length  by  a  tall  good-looking  young  woman.  Her 
hair  curls  prettily,  catching  the  light ;  her  eyes  are 
stupid  and  beautiful.  She  has  on  a  black  skirt  and 
a  bright  purple  waist. 

' '  Do  you  take  boarders  ?' ' 

"Why,  yes.  I  don't  generally  like  to  take  ladies, 
they  give  so  much  trouble.  You  can  come  in  if  you 
like.  Here's  the  room,"  she  continues,  opening  a 
door  near  the  vestibule.  She  brushes  her  hand 
over  her  forehead  and  stares  at  me ;  and  then,  as 
though  she  can  no  longer  silence  the  knell  that  is 
ringing  in  her  heart,  she  says  to  me,  always  staring : 

"My  husband  was  killed  on  the  railroad  last  week. 
He  lived  three  hours.  They  took  him  to  the  hospital 
— a  boy  come  running  down  and  told  me.  I  went 
up  as  fast  as  I  could,  but  it  was  too  late ;  he  never 
spoke  again.  I  guess  he  didn't  know  what  struck 
him ;  his  head  was  all  smashed.  He  was  awful  good 
to  me — so  easy-going.  I  ain't  got  my  mind  down 
to  work  yet.  If  you  don't  like  this  here  room,"  she 
goes  on  listlessly,  "maybe  you  could  get  suited 
across  the  way." 

Thompson  Seton  tells  us  in  his  book  on  wild 
animals  that  not  one  among  them  ever  dies  a  natural 
death.  As  the  opposite  extreme  of  vital  persistence 


IN   A   PITTSBURG  FACTORY  31 

we  have  the  man  whose  life,  in  spite  of  acute  disease, 
is  prolonged  against  reason  by  science ;  and  midway 
comes  the  labourer,  who  takes  his  chances  unarmed 
by  any  understanding  of  physical  law,  whose  only 
safeguards  are  his  wits  and  his  presence  of  mind. 
The  violent  death,  the  accidents,  the  illnesses  to 
which  he  falls  victim  might  be  often  warded  off 
by  proper  knowledge.  Nature  is  a  zealous  enemy ; 
ignorance  and  inexperience  keep  a  whole  class 
defenseless. 

The  next  day  is  Saturday.  I  feel  a  fresh  excite- 
ment at  going  back  to  my  job ;  the  factory  draws  me 
toward  it  magnetically.  I  long  to  be  in  the  hum  and 
whir  of  the  busy  workroom.  Two  days  of  leisure 
without  resources  or  amusement  make  clear  to  me 
how  the  sociability  of  factory  life,  the  freedom  from 
personal  demands,  the  escape  from  self  can  prove  a 
distraction  to  those  who  have  no  mental  occupation, 
no  money  to  spend  ori  diversion.  It  is  easier  to 
submit  to  factory  government  which  commands 
five  hundred  girls  with  one  law  valid  for  all,  than  to 
undergo  the  arbitrary  discipline  of  parental  authority. 
I  speed  across  the  snow-covered  courtyard.  In  a 
moment  my  cap  and  apron  are  on  and  I  am  sent  to 
report  to  the  head  forewoman. 

"We  thought  you'd  quit,"  she  says.  "Lots  of 
girls  come  in  here  and  quit  after  one  day,  especially 
Saturday.  To-day  is  scrubbing  day,"  she  smiles  at 
me.  "Now  we'll  do  right  by  you  if  you  do 


32  THE    WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

right  by  us.  What  did  the  timekeeper  say  he'd  give 
you?" 

"Sixty  or  seventy  a  day." 

"We'll  give  you  seventy,"  she  says.  "Of  course, 
we  can  judge  girls  a  good  deal  by,  their  looks,  and 
we  can  see  that  you're  above  the  average." 

She  wears  her  cap  close  against  her  head.  Her 
front  hair  is  rolled  up  in  crimping-pins.  She  has 
false  teeth  and  is  a  widow.  Her  pale,  parched  face 
shows  what  a  great  share  of  life  has  been  taken  by 
daily  over-effort  repeated  during  years.  As  she  talks 
she  touches  my  arm  in  a  kindly  fashion  and  looks 
at  me  with  blue  eyes  that  float  about  under  weary- 
lids.  "You  are  only  at  the  beginning,"  they  seem 
to  say.  "Your  youth  and  vigour  are  at  full  tide, 
but  drop  by  drop  they  will  be  sapped  from  you,  to 
swell  the  great  flood  of  human,  effort  that  supplies 
the  world's  material  needs.  You  will  gain  in  experi- 
ence," the  weary  lids  flutter  at  me,  "but  you  will  pay 
with  your  life  the  living  you  make." 

There  is  no  variety  in  my  morning's  work.  Next 
to  me  is  a  bright,  pretty  girl  jamming  chopped 
pickles  into  bottles.. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  I  ask,  attracted 
by  her  capable  appearance.  She  does  her  work 
easily  and  well. 

"About  five  months." 

"How  much  do  you  make?" 

"Prom  90  cents  to  $1.05.     I'm  doing  piece-work," 


IN  A   PITTSBURG  FACTORY  33 

she  explains.  "I  get  seven-eighths  of  a  cent  for  every 
dozen  bottles  I  fill.  I  have  to  fill  eight  dozen  to  make 
seven  cents.  Downstairs  in  the  corking-room  you 
can  make  as  high  as  $1.15  to  $1.20.  They  won't  let 
you  make  any  more  than  that.  Me  and  them  two 
girls  over  there  are  the  only  ones  in  this  room  doing 
piece-work.  I  was  here  three  weeks  as  a  day-worker." 

"Do  you  live  at  home  ?"  I  ask. 

"Yes ;  I  don't  have  to  work.  I  don't  pay  no  board. 
My  father  and  my  brothers  supports  me  and  my 
mother.  But,"  and  her  eyes  twinkle,  "I  couldn't 
have  the  clothes  I  do  if  I  didn't  work." 

"Do  you  spend  your  money  all  on  yourself?" 

"Yes." 

I  am  amazed  at  the  cheerfulness  of  my  companions. 
They  complain  of  fatigue,  of  cold,  but  never  at  any 
time  is  there  a  suggestion  of  ill-humour.  Their 
suppressed  animal  spirits  reassert  themselves  when 
the  forewoman's  back  is  turned.  Companionship 
is  the  great  stimulus.  I  am  confident  that  without 
the  social  entrain,  the  encouragement  of  example,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  obtain  as  much  from  each 
individual  girl  as  is  obtained  from  them  in  groups 
of  tens,  fifties,  hundreds  working  together. 

When  lunch,  is  over  we  are  set  to  scrubbing. 
Every  table  and  stand,  every  inch  of  the  factory 
floor  must  be  scrubbed  in  the  next  four  hours.  The 
whistle  on  Saturday  blows  an  hour  earlier.  Any 
girl  who  has  not  finished  her  work  when  the  day  is 


34  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

done,  so  that  she  can  leave  things  in  perfect  order,  is 
kept  overtime,  for  which  she  is  paid  at  the  ratte  of 
six  or  seven  cents  an  hour.  A  pail  of  hot  water,  a 
dirty  rag  and  a  scrubbing-brush  are  thrust  into  my 
hands.  I  touch  them  gingerly.  I  get  a  broom 
and  for  some  time  make  sweeping  a  necessity,  but 
the  forewoman  is  watching  me.  I  am  afraid  of  her. 
There  is  no  escape.  I  begin  to  scrub.  My  hands  go 
into  the  brown,  slimy  water  and  come  out  brown 
and  slimy.  I  slop  the  soap-suds  around  and  move 
on  to  a  fresh  place.  It  appears  there  are  a  right 
and  a  wrong  way  of  scrubbing.  The  forewoman 
is  at  my  side. 

"Have  you  ever  scrubbed  before?"  she  asks 
sharply.  This  is  humiliating. 

"Yes,"  I  answer;  "I  have  scrubbed  .  .  .  oil- 
cloth." 

The  forewoman  knows  how  to  do  everything. 
She  drops  down  on  her  knees  and,  with  her  strong 
arms  and  short-thumbed,  brutal  hands,  she  shows 
me  how  to  scrub. 

The  grumbling  is  general.  There  is  but  one 
opinion  among  the  girls:  it  is  not  right  that  they 
should  be  made  to  do  this  work.  They  all  echo  the 
same  resentment,  but  their  complaints  are  made  in 
whispers;  not  one  has  the  courage  to  openly  rebel. 
What,  I  wonder  to  myself,  do  the  men  do  on  scrub- 
bing day.  I  try  to  picture  one  of  them  on  his  hands 
and  knees  in  a  sea  of  brown  mud.  It  is  impossible. 


IN  A   PITTSBURG  FACTORY  35 

The  next  time  I  go  for  a  supply  of  soft  soap  in  a 
department  where  the  men  are  working  I  take  a 
look  at  the  masculine  interpretation  of  house  clean- 
ing. One  man  is  playing  a  hose  on  the  floor  and  the 
rest  are  rubbing  the  boards  down  with  long-handled 
brooms  and  rubber  mops. 

"You  take  it  easy,"  I  say  to  the  boss. 

"I  won't  have  no  scrubbing  in  my  place,"  he 
answers  emphatically.  "The  first  scrubbing  day, 
they  says  to  me  'Get  down  on  your  hands  and  knees,' 
and  I  says — 'Just  pay  me  my  money,  will  you;  I'm 
goin'  home.  What  scrubbing  can't  be  done  with 
mops  ain't  going  to  be  done  by  me.'  The  women 
wouldn't  have  to  scrub,  either,  if  they  had  enough 
spirit  all  of  'em  to  say  so." 

I  determined  to  find  out  if  possible,  during  my  stay 
in  the  factory,  what  it  is  that  clogs  this  mainspring 
of  "spirit"  in  the  women. 

I  hear  fragmentary  conversations  about  fancy 
dress  balls,  valentine  parties,  church  sociables, 
flirtations  and  clothes.  Almost  all  of  the  girls  wear 
shoes  with  patent  leather  and  some  or  much  cheap 
jewelry,  brooches,  bangles  and  rings.  A  few  draw 
their  corsets  in ;  the  majority  are  not  laced.  Here 
and  there  I  see  a  new  girl  whose  back  is  flat,  whose 
chest  is  well  developed.  Among  the  older  hands 
who  have  begun  work  early  there  is  not  a  straight 
pair  of  shoulders.  Much  of  the  bottle  washing  and 
filling  is  done  by  children  from  twelve  to  fourteen 


36  THE    WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

years  of  age.  On  their  slight,  frail  bodies  toil  weighs 
heavily;  the  delicate  child  form  gives  way  to  the 
iron  hand  of  labour  pressed  too  soon  upon  it. 
Backs  bend  earthward,  chests  recede,  never  to 
be  sound  again. 


After  a  Sunday  of  rest  I  arrive  somewhat  ahead 
of  time  on  Monday  morning,  which  leaves  me  a  few 
moments  for  conversation  with  a  piece-worker  who 
is  pasting  labels  on  mustard  jars.  She  is  fifteen. 

"Do  you  like  your  job  ?"  I  ask. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  answers,  pleased  to  tell  her  little 
history.  "I  began  in  a  clothing  shop.  I  only  made 
$2.50  a  week,  but  I  didn't  have  to  stand.  I  felt 
awful  when  papa  made  me  quit.  When  I  came  in 
here,  bein'  on  my  feet  tired  me  so  I  cried  every 
night  for  two  months.  Now  I've  got  used  to  it. 
I  don't  feel  no  more  tired  when  I  get  home  than  I 
did  when  I  started  out."  There  are  two  sharp 
blue  lines  that  drag  themselves  down  from  her 
eyes  to  her  white  cheeks. 

"Why,  you  know,  at  Christmas  they  give  us  two 
weeks,"  she  goes  on  in  the  sociable  tone  of  a  woman 
whose  hands  are  occupied.  "I  just  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  myself." 

"Does  your  mother  work  ?" 

"Oh,  my,  no.  I  don't  have  to  work,  only  if  I 
didn't  I  couldn't  have  the  clothes  I  do.  I  save 


IN   A   PITTSBURG   FACTORY  37 

some  of  my  money  and  spend  the  rest  on  myself.  I 
make  $6  to  $7  a  week." 

The  girl  next  us  volunteers  a  share  in  the  conver- 
sation. 

"I  bet  you  can't  guess  how  old  I  am." 

I  look  at  her.  Her  face  and  throat  are  wrinkled, 
her  hands  broad  and  scrawny;  she  is  tall  and  has 
short  skirts.  What  shall  be  my  clue  ?  If  I  judge 
by  pleasure,  "unborn  "  would  be  my  answer;  if  by 
effort,  then  "a  thousand  years." 

"Twenty,"  I  hazard  as  a  safe  medium. 

"Fourteen,"  she  laughs.  "I  don't  like  it  at  home, 
the  kids  bother  me  so.  Mamma's  people  are  well- 
to-do.  I'm  working  for  my  own  pleasure." 

"Indeed,  I  wish  I  was,"  says  a  new  girl  with  a  red 
waist.  "We  three  girls  supports  mamma  and  runs 
the  house.  We  have  $13  rent  to  pay  and  a  load  of 
coal  every  month  and  groceries.  It's  no  joke,  I  can 
tell  you." 

The  whistle  blows ;  I  go  back  to  my  monotonous 
task.  The  old  aches  begin  again,  first  gently,  then 
more  and  more  sharply.  The  work  itself  is  growing 
more  mechanical.  I  can  watch  the  girls  around  me. 
What  is  it  that  determines  superiority  in  this  class  ? 
Why  was  the  girl  filling  pickle  jars  put  on  piece- 
work after  three  weeks,  when  others  older  than  she 
are  doing  day-work  at  fifty  and  sixty  cents  after  a 
year  in  the  factory  ?  What  quality  decides  that  four 
shall  direct  four  hundred  ?  Intelligence  I  put  first ; 


38  THE   WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

intelligence  of  any  kind,  from  the  natural  pene- 
tration that  needs  no  teaching  to  the  common  sense 
that  every  one  relies  upon.  Judgment  is  not  far 
behind  in  the  list,  and  it  is  soon  matured  by  experi- 
ence. A  strong  will  and  a  moral  steadiness  stand 
guardians  over  the  other  two.  The  little  pickle 
girl  is  winning  in  the  race  by  her  intelligence.  The 
forewomen  have  all  four  qualities,  sometimes  one, 
sometimes  another  predominating.  Pretty  Clara 
is  smarter  than  Lottie.  Lottie  is  more  steady. 
Old  Mrs.  Minns'  will  has  kept  her  at  it  until  her 
judgment  has  become  infallible  and  can  command  a 
good  price.  Annie  is  an  evenly  balanced  mixture  of 
all,  and  the  five  hundred  who  are  working  under  the 
five  lack  these  qualities  somewhat,  totally,  gr  have 
them  in  useless  proportions. 

Monday  is  a  hard  day.  There  is  more  complain- 
ing, more  shirking,  more  gossip  than  in  the  middle  of 
the  week.  Most  of  the  girls  have  been  to  dances  on 
Saturday  night,  to  church  on  Sunday  evening  with 
some  young  man.  Their  conversation  is  vulgar  and 
prosaic;  there  is  nothing  in  the  language  they  use 
that  suggests  an  ideal  or  any  conception  of  the 
abstract.  They  make  jokes,  state  facts  about  the 
work,  tease  each  other,  but  in  all  they  say  there  is 
not  a  word  of  value — nothing  that  would  interest  if 
repeated  out  of  its  class.  They  have  none  of  the 
sagaciousness  of  the  low-born  Italian,  none-of  the  wit 
and  penetration  of  the  French  ouvriere.  The  Old 


IN  A   PITTSBURG  FACTORY  39 

World  generations  ago  divided  itself  into  classes; 
the  lower  class  watched  the  upper  and  grew  observ- 
ant and  appreciative,  wise  and  discriminating, 
through  the  study  of  a  master's  will.  Here  in  the 
land  of  freedom,  where  no  class  line  is  rigid,  the 
precious  chance  is  not  to  serve  but  to  live  for  oneself ; 
not  to  watch  a  superior,  but  to  find  out  by  experi- 
ence. The  ideal  plays  no  part,  stern  realities  alone 
count,  and  thus  we  have  a  progressive,  practical, 
independent  people,  the  expression  of  whose  per- 
sonality is  interesting  not  through  their  words  but 
by  their  deeds. 

When  the  Monday  noon  whistle  blows  I  follow  the 
hundreds  down  into  the  dining-room.  Each  wears 
her  cap  in  a  way  that  speaks  for  her  temperament. 
There  is  the  indifferent,  the  untidy,  the  prim,  the 
vain,  the  coquettish;  and  the  faces  under  them, 
which  all  looked  alike  at  first,  are  becoming  familiar. 
I  have  begun  to  make  friends.  I  speak  bad  English, 
but  do  not  attempt  to  change  my  voice  and  inflection 
nor  to  adopt  the  twang.  No  allusion  is  made  to 
my  pronunciation  except  by  one  girl,  who  says: 

"I  knew  you  was  from  the  East.  My  sister  spent 
a  year  in  Boston  and  when  she  come  back  she  talked 
just  like  you  do,  but  she  lost  it  all  again.  I'd  give 
anything  if  I  could  talk  aristocratic." 

I  am  beginning  to  understand  why  the  meager 
lunches  of  preserve-sandwiches  and  pickles  more 
than  satisfy  the  girls  whom  I  was  prepared  to 


40  THE    WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

accuse  of  spending  their  money  on  gewgaws  rather 
than  on  nourishment.  It  is  fatigue  that  steals  the 
appetite.  I  can  hardly  taste  what  I  put  in  my 
mouth ;  the  food  sticks  in  my  throat.  The  girls  who 
complain  most  of  being  tired  are  the  ones  who  roll 
up  their  newspaper  bundles  half  full.  They  should 
be  given  an  hour  at  noon.  The  first  half  of  it  should  be 
spent  in  rest  and  recreation  before  a  bite  is  touched. 
The  good  that  such  a  regulation  would  work  upon 
their  faulty  skins  and  pale  faces,  their  lasting  strength 
and  health,  would  be  incalculable.  I  did  not  want 
wholesome  food,  exhausted  as  I  was.  I  craved 
sours  and  sweets,  pickles,  cake,  anything  to  excite 
my  numb  taste. 

So  long  as  I  remain  in  the  bottling  department 
there  is  little  variety  in  my  days.  Rising  at  5  130 
every  morning,  I  make  my  way  through  black 
streets  to  offer  my  sacrifice  of  energy  on  the  altar  of 
toil.  All  is  done  without  a  fresh  incident.  Accumu- 
lated weariness  forces  me  to  take  a  day  off.  When 
I  return  I  am  sent  for  in  the  corking-room.  The 
forewoman  lends  me  a  blue  gingham  dress  and  tells 
me  I  am  to  do  "piece"-work.  There  are  three  who 
work  together  at  every  corking-table.  My  two 
companions  are  a  woman  with  goggles  and  a  one- 
eyed  boy.  We  are  not  a  brilliant  trio.  The  job 
consists  in  evening  the  vinegar  in  the  bottles,  driving 
the  cork  in,  first  with  a  machine,  then  with  a  ham- 
mer, letting  out  the  air  with  a  knife  stuck  under  the 


IN  A   PITTSBURG  FACTORY  41 

cork,  capping  the  corks,  sealing  the  caps,  counting 
and  distributing  the  bottles.  These  operations  are 
paid  for  at  the  rate  of  one-half  a  cent  for  the  dozen 
bottles,  which  sum  is  divided  among  us.  My  two  com- 
panions are  earning  a  living,  so  I  must  work  in  dead 
earnest  or  take  bread  out  of  their  mouths.  At  every 
blow  of  the  hammer  there  is  danger.  Again  and  again 
bottles  fly  to  pieces  in  my  hand.  The  boy  who  runs 
the  corking-machine  smashes  a  glass  to  fragments. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  I  ask,  my  own  fingers  crimson 
stained. 

"That  ain't  nothin',"  he  answers.  "Cuts  is 
common ;  my  hands  is  full  of  'em." 

The  woman  directs  us ;  she  is  fussy  and  loses  her 
head,  the  work  accumulates,  I  am  slow,  the  boy  is 
clumsy.  There  is  a  stimulus  unsuspected  in  working 
to  get  a  job  done.  Before  this  I  had  worked  to  make 
the  time  pass.  Then  no  one  took  account  of  how 
much  I  did ;  the  factory  clock  had  a  weighted  pendu- 
lum ;  now  ambition  outdoes  physical  strength.  The 
hours  and  my  purpose  are  running  a  race  together. 
But,  hurry  as  I  may,  as  we  do,  when  twelve  blows 
its  signal  we  have  corked  only  210  dozen  bottles! 
This  is  no  more  than  day-work  at  seventy  cents. 
With  an  ache  in  every  muscle,  I  redouble  my  energy 
after  lunch.  The  girl  with  the  goggles  looks  at  me 
blindly  and  says : 

"Ain't  it  just  awful  hard  work?  You  can  make 
good  money,  but  you've  got  to  hustle." 


42  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

She  is  a  forlorn  specimen  of  humanity,  ugly,  old, 
dirty,  condemned  to  the  slow  death  of  the  over- 
worked. I  am  a  green  hand.  I  make  mistakes ;  I 
have  no  experience  in  the  fierce  sustained  effort  of 
the  bread-winners.  Over  and  over  I  turn  to  her, 
over  and  over  she  is  obliged  to  correct  me.  During 
the  ten  hours  we  work  side  by  side  not  one  murmur 
of  impatience  escapes  her.  When  she  sees  that  I 
am  getting  discouraged  she  calls  out  across  the 
deafening  din,  "That's  all  right;  you  can't  expect  to 
learn  in  a  day;  just  keep  on  steady." 

As  I  go  about  distributing  bottles  to  the  labelers 
I  notice  a  strange  little  elf,  not  more  fhan  twelve 
years  old,  hauling  loaded  crates ;  her  face  and  chest 
are  depressed,  she  is  pale  to  blueness,  her  eyes  have 
indigo  circles,  her  pupils  are  unnaturally  dilated, 
her  brows  contracted ;  she  has  the  appearance  of  a 
cave-bred  creature.  She  seems  scarcely  human. 
When  the  time  for  cleaning  up  arrives  toward  five 
my  boss  sends  me  for  a  bucket  of  water  to  wash  up 
the  floor.  I  go  to  the  sink,  turn  on  the  cold  water 
and  with  it  the  steam  which  takes  the  place  of  hot 
water.  The  valve  slips ;  in  an  instant  I  am  enveloped 
in  a  scalding  cloud.  Before  it  has  cleared  away  the 
elf  is  by  my  side. 

"Did  you  hurt  yourself?"  she  asks. 

Her  inhuman  form  is  the  vehicle  of  a  human 
heart,  warm  and  tender.  She  lifts  her  wide-pupiled 
eyes  to  mine ;  her  expression  does  not  change  from 


IN  A   PITTSBURG   FACTORY  43 

that  of  habitual  scrutiny  cast  early  in  a  rigid  mould, 
but  her  voice  carries  sympathy  from  its  purest 
source. 

There  is  more  honour  than  courtesy  in  the  code 
of  etiquette.  Commands  are  given  curtly;  the 
slightest  injustice  is  resented;  each  man  for  himself 
in  work,  but  in  trouble  all  for  the  one  who  is  suffering. 
No  bruise  or  cut  or  burn  is  too  familiar  a  sight  to  pass 
uncared  for. 

It  is  their  common  sufferings,  their  common  effort 
that  unites  them. 

When  I  have  become  expert  in  the  corking  art  I 
am  raised  to  a  better  table,  with  a  bright  boy,  and  a 
girl  who  is  dignified  and  indifferent  with  the  indiffer- 
ence of  those  who  have  had  too  much  responsibility. 
She  never  hurries ;  the  work  slips  easily  through  her 
fingers.  She  keeps  a  steady  bearing  over  the 
morning's  ups  and  downs.  Under  her  load  of  trials 
there  is  something  big  in  the  steady  way  she  sails. 

"Used  to  hard  work ?"  she  asks  me. 

"Not  much,"  I  answer ;  "are  you  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  began  at  thirteen  in  a  bakery.  I  had 
a  place  near  the  oven  and  the  heat  overcame  me." 

Her  shoulders  are  bowed,  her  chest  is  hollow. 

"Looking  for  a  boarding  place  near  the  factory,  I 
hear,"  she  continues. 

"Yes.     You  live  at  home,  I  suppose." 

"Yes.  There's  four  of  us:  mamma,  papa,  my 
sister  and  myself.  Papa's  blind." 


44  THE    WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

"Can't  he  work?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  creeps  to  his  job  every  morning,  and 
he's  got  so  much  experience  he  kind  o'  does  things 
by  instinct." 

"Does  your  mother  work?" 

"Oh,  my,  no.  My  sister's  an  invalid.  She 
hasn't  been  out  o'  the  door  for  three  years.  She's 
got  enlargement  of  the  heart  and  consumption,  too, 
I  guess;  she  'takes'  hemorrhages.  Sometimes  she 
has  twelve  in  one  night.  Every  time  she  coughs  the 
blood  comes  foaming  out  of  her  mouth.  She  can't 
lie  down.  I  guess  she'd  die  if  she  lay  down,  and  she 
gets  so  tired  sittin'  up  all  night.  She  used  to  be  a 
tailoress,  but  I  guess  her  job  didn't  agree  with  her." 

"How  many  checks  have  we  got,"  I  ask  toward 
the  close  of  the  day. 

"Thirteen,"  Ella  answers. 

"An  unlucky  number,"  I  venture,  hoping  to 
arouse  an  opinion. 

"Are  you  superstitious?"  she  asks,  continuing  to 
twist  tin  caps  on  the  pickle  jars.  "I  am.  If 
anything's  going  to  happen  I  can't  help  having 
presentiments,  and  they  come  true,  too." 

Here  is  a  mystic,  I  thought;  so  I  continued: 

"And  what  about  dreams  ?" 

"Oh  !"  she  cried.  "Dreams  !  I  have  the  queerest 
of  anybody !" 

I  was  all  attention. 

• 

"Why,  last  night,"  she  drew  near  to  me  and  spoke 


IN  A  PITTSBURG  FACTORY  45 

slowly,  "I  dreamed  that  mamma  was  drunk,  and 
that  she  was  stealing  chickens  !" 

Such  is  the  imagination  of  this  weary  worker. 

The  whole  problem  in  mechanical  labour  rests 
upon  economy  of  force.  The  purpose  of  each,  I 
learned  by  experience,  was  to  accomplish  as  much 
as  possible  with  one  single  stroke.  In  this  respect 
the  machine  is  superior  to  man,  and  man  to  woman. 
Sometimes  I  tried  original  ways  of  doing  the  work 
given  me.  I  soon  found  in  every  case  that  the 
methods  proposed  by  the  forewoman  were  in  the  end 
those  whereby  I  could  do  the  greatest  amount  of 
work  with  the  least  effort.  A  mustard  machine  had 
recently  been  introduced  to  the  factory.  It  replaced 
three  girls;  it  filled  as  many  bottles  with  a  single 
stroke  as  the  girls  could  fill  with  twelve.  This 
machine  and  all  the  others  used  were  run  by  boys  or 
men ;  the  girls  had  not  strength  enough  to  manipu- 
late them  methodically. 

The  power  of  the  machine,  the  physical  force  of 
the  man  were  simplifying  their  tasks.  While  the 
boy  was  keeping  steadily  at  one  thing,  perfecting 
himself,  we,  the  women,  were  doing  a  variety  of 
things,  complicated  and  fussy,  left  to  our  lot  because 
we  had  not  physical  force  for  the  simpler  but  greater 
effort.  The  boy  at  the  corking-table  had  soon 
become  an  expert;  he  was  fourteen  and  he  made 
from  $i  to  $1.20  a  day.  He  worked  ten  hours  at 
one  job,  whereas  Ella  and  I  had  a  dozen  little  jobs 


46'  THE   WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

almost  impossible  to  systematize:  we  hammered 
and  cut  and  capped  the  corks  and  washed  and  wiped 
the  bottles,  sealed  them,  counted  them,  distributed 
them,  kept  the  table  washed  up,  the  sink  cleaned 
out,  and  once  a  day  scrubbed  up  our  own  precincts. 
When  I  asked  the  boy  if  he  was  tired  he  laughed  at 
me.  He  was  superior  to  us;  he  was  stronger;  he 
could  do  more  with  one  stroke  than  we  could  do  with 
three ;  he  was  by  nature  a  more  valuable  aid  than 
we.  We  were  forced  through  physical  inferiority 
to  abandon  the  choicest  task  to  this  young  male 
competitor.  Nature  had  given  us  a  handicap  at 
the  start. 

For  a  few  days  there  is  no  vacancy  at  the  corking- 
tables.  I  am  sent  back  to  the  bottling  department. 
The  oppressive  monotony  is  one  day  varied  by  a 
summons  to  the  men's  dining-room.  I  go  eagerly, 
glad  of  any  change.  In  the  kitchen  I  find  a  girl  with 
skin  disease  peeling  potatoes,  and  a  coloured  man 
making  soup  in  a  wash-boiler.  The  girl  gives  me  a 
stool  to  sit  on,  and  a  knife  and  a  pan  of  potatoes. 
The  dinner  under  preparation  is  for  the  men  of  the 
factory.  There  are  two  hundred  of  them.  They  are 
paid  from  $1.35  up  to  $3  a  day.  Their  wages  begin 
above  the  highest  limit  given  to  women.  The  dinner 
costs  each  man  ten  cents.  The  $20  paid  in  daily 
cover  the  expenses  of  the  cook,  two  kitchen  maids 
and  the  dinner,  which  consists  of  meat,  bread  and 
butter,  vegetables  and  coffee,  sometimes  soup, 


IN   A   P1TTSBURG   FACTORY  47 

sometimes  dessert.  If  this  can  pay  for  two  hundred 
there  is  no  reason  why  for  five  cents  a  hot  meal  of 
some  kind  could  not  be  given  the  women.  They 
don't  demand  it,  so  they  are  left  to  make  themselves 
ill  on  pickles  and  preserves. 

The  coloured  cook  is  full  of  song  and  verse.  He 
quotes  from  the  Bible  freely,  and  gives  us  snatches  of 
popular  melodies. 

We  have  frequent  calls  from  the  elevator  boy,  who 
brings  us  ice  and  various  provisions.  Both  men, 
I  notice,  take  their  work  easily.  During  the  morning 
a  busy  Irish  woman  comes  hurrying  into  our  pre- 
cincts. 

"Say,"  she. yells  in  a  shrill  voice,  "my  cauliflowers 
ain't  here,  are  they  ?  I  ordered  'em  early  and  they 
ain't  came  yet." 

Without  properly  waiting  for  an  answer  she 
hurries  away  again. 

The  coloured  cook  turns  to  the  elevator  boy 
understandingly : 

"Just  like  a  woman  !  Why,  before  I'd  make  a  fuss 
about  cauliflowers  or  anything  else  !" 

Abeut  eleven  the  head  forewoman  stops  in  to  eat 
a  plate  of  rice  and  milk.  While  I  am  cutting 
bread  for  the  two  hundred  I  hear  her  say  to  the 
cook  in  a  gossipy  tone : 

"How  do  you  like  the  new  girl?  She's  here  all 
alone." 

I  am  called  away  and  do  not  hear  the  rest  of  the 


48  THE    WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

conversation.  When  I  return  the  cook  lectures  me 
in  this  way : 

"Here  alone,  are  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  see  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  get 
along  nicely  and  not  kill  yourself  with  work  either. 
Just  stick  at  it  and  they'll  do  right  by  you.  Lots  o' 
girls  who's  here  alone  gets  to  fooling  around.  Now 
I  like  everybody  to  have  a  good  time,  and  I  hope 
you'll  have  a  good  time,  too,  but  you  mustn't  carry 
it  too  far." 

My  mind  went  back  as  he  said  this  to  a  conversa- 
tion I  had  had  the  night  before  with  a  working-girl 
at  my  boarding-house. 

"Where  is  your  home?"  I  asked. 

She  had  been  doing  general  housework,  but  ill- 
health  had  obliged  her  to  take  a  rest. 

She  looked  at  me  skeptically. 

"We  don't  have  no  homes,"  was  her  answer. 
"We  just  get  up  and  get  whenever  they  send  us 
along." 

And  almost  as  a  sequel  to  this  I  thought  of  two 
sad  cases  that  had  come  close  to  my  notice  as  fellow 
boarders. 

I  was  sitting  alone  one  night  by  the  gas  stove  in 
the  parlour.  The  matron  had  gone  out  and  left  me 
to  "answer  the  door."  The  bell  rang  and  I  opened 
cautiously,  for  the  wind  was  howling  and  driving 
the  snow  and  sleet  about  on  the  winter  air.  A 


IN  A   PITTSBURG  FACTORY  49 

young  girl  came  in ;  she  was  seeking  a  lodging.  Her 
skirts  and  shoes  were  heavy  with  water.  She  took 
off  her  things  slowly  in  a  dazed  manner.  Her  short, 
quick  breathing  showed  how  excited  she  was.  When 
she  spoke  at  last  her  voice  sounded  hollow,  her  eyes 
moved  about  restlessly.  She  stopped  abruptly  now 
and  then  and  contracted  her  brows  as  though  in  an 
appeal  for  merciful  tears ;  then  she  continued  in  the 
same  broken,  husky  voice : 

"  I  suppose  I'm  not  the  only  one  in  trouble.  I  've 
thought  a  thousand  times  over  that  I  would  kill 
myself.  I  suppose  I  loved  him — but  I  hate  him 
now." 

These  two  sentences,  recurring,  were  the  story's 
all. 

The  impotence  of  rebellion,  a  sense  of  outrage  at 
being  abandoned,  the  instinctive  appeal  for  protec- 
tion as  a  right,  the  injustice  of  being  left  solely  to  bear 
the  burden  of  responsibility  which  so  long  as  it  was 
pleasure  had  been  shared — these  were  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  breeding  hatred. 

She  had  spent  the  day  in  a  fruitless  search  for  her 
lover.  She  had  been  to  his  boss  and  to  his  rooms. 
He  had  paid  his  debts  and  gone,  nobody  knew 
where.  She  was  pretty,  vain,  homeless;  alone  to 
bear  the  responsibility  she  had  not  been  alone  to 
incur.  She  could  not  shirk  it  as  the  man  had  done. 
They  had  both  disregarded  the  law.  On  whom  were 
the  consequences  weighing  more  heavily?  On  the 


50  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

woman.  She  is  the  sufferer ;  she  is  the  first  to  miss 
the  law's  protection.  She  is  the  weaker  member 
whom,  for  the  sake  of  the  race,  society  protects. 
Nature  has  made  her  man's  physical  inferior;  society 
is  obliged  to  recognize  this  in  the  giving  of  a  marriage 
law  which  beyond  doubt  is  for  the  benefit  of  woman, 
since  she  can  least  afford  to  disregard  it. 

Another  evening  when  the  matron  was  out  I  sat 
for  a  time  with  a  young  working  woman  and  her 
baby.  There  is  a  comradeship  among  the  poor  that 
makes  light  of  indiscreet  questions.  I  felt  only 
sympathy  in  asking : 

"Are  you  alone  to  bring  up  your  child?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  was  the  answer.  "I'll  never  go 
home  witft  him." 

I  looked  at  him :  a  wizened,  four-months-old  infant 
with  a  huge  flat  nose,  and  two  dull  black  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  gas  jet.  The  girl  had  the  grace  of  a  forest- 
born  creature;  she  moved  with  the  mysterious 
strength  and  suppleness  of  a  tree's  branch.  She 
was  proud;  she  felt  herself  disgraced.  For  four 
months  she  had  not  left  the  house.  I  talked  on, 
proposing  different  things. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  she  said.  "  I  can't 
never  go  home  with  him,  and  if  I  went  home  without 
him  I'd  never  be  the  same.  I  don't  know  what  I'd 
do  if  anything  happened  to  him."  Her  head  bowed 
over  the  child ;  she  held  him  close  to  her  breast. 

But  to  return  to  the  coloured  cook  and  my  day  in 


IN   A   PITTSBURG   FACTORY  51 

the  kitchen.  I  had  ample  opportunity  to  compare 
domestic  service  with  factory  work.  We  set  the 
table  for  two  hundred,  and  do  a  thousand  miserable 
slavish  tasks  that  must  be  begun  again  the 
following  day.  At  twelve  the  two  hundred  troop 
in,  toil-worn  and  begrimed.  They  pass  like 
locusts,  leaving  us  sixteen  hundred  dirty  dishes 
to  wash  up  and  wipe.  This  takes  us  four  hour^, 
and  when  we  have  finished  the  work  stands 
ready  to  be  done  over  the  next  morning  with 
peculiar  monotony.  In  the  factory  there  is  stimulus 
in  feeling  that  the  material  which  passes  through 
one's  hands  will  never  be  seen  or  heard  of  again. 

On  Saturday  the  owner  of  the  factory  comes  at 
lunch  time  with  several  friends  and  talks  to  us  with 
an  amazing  camaraderie.  He  is  kin,dly,  humourous 
and  tactful.  One  or  two  missionaries  speak  after 
him,  but  their  conversation  is  too  abstract  for  us. 
We  want  something  dramatic,  imaginative,  to  hold 
our  attention,  or  something  wholly  natural.  Tell 
us  about  the  bees,  the  beavers  or  the  toilers  of  the 
sea.  The  longing  for  flowers  has  often  come  to  me 
as  I  work,  and  a  rose  seems  of  all  things  the  most 
desirable.  In  my  present  condition  I  do  not  hark 
back  to  civilized  wants,  but  repeatedly  my  mind 
travels  toward  the  country  places  I  have  seen  in  the 
fields  and  forests.  If  I  had  a  holiday  I  would  spend 
it  seeing  not  what  man  but  what  God  has  made. 
These  are  the  things  to  be  remembered  in  addressing 


52  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

or  trying  to  amuse  or  instruct  girls  who  are  no  more 
prepared  than  I  felt  myself  to  be  for  any  precon- 
ceived ideal  of  art  or  ethics.  The  omnipresence  of 
dirt  and  ugliness,  of  machines  and  "  stock, "  leave  the 
mind  in  a  state  of  lassitude  which  should  be  roused 
by  something  natural.  As  an  initial  remedy  for  the 
ills  I  voluntarily  assumed  I  would  propose  amuse- 
ment. Of  all  the  people  who  spoke  to  us  that 
Saturday,  we  liked  best  the  one  who  made  us 
laugh.  It  was  a  relief  to  hear  something  funny.  In 
working  as  an  outsider  in  a  factory  girls'  club  I  had 
always  held  that  nothing  was  so  important  as  to 
give  the  poor  something  beautiful  to  look  at  and 
think  about — a  photograph  or  copy  of  some  chef 
d'oeuvre,  an  objet  d'art,  lessons  in  literature  and 
art  which  would  uplift  their  souls  from  the  dreariness 
of  their  surroundings.  Three  weeks  as  a  factory 
girl  had  changed  my  beliefs.  If  the  young  society 
women  who  sacrifice  one  evening  every  week  to  talk 
to  the  poor  in  the  slums  about  Shakespeare  and 
Italian  art  would  instead  offer  diversion  first — a 
play,  a  farce,  a  humourous  recitation — they  would 
make  much  more  rapid  progress  in  winning  the 
confidence  of  those  whom  they  want  to  help.  The 
working  woman  who  has  had  a  good  laugh  is  more 
ready  to  tell  what  she  needs  and  feels  and  fears  than 
the  woman  who  has  been  forced  to  listen  silently  to  an 
abstract  lesson.  In  society  when  we  wish  to  make 
friends  with  people  we  begin  by  entertaining  them. 


IN  A  PITTSBURG  FACTORY  53 

It  should  be  the  same  way  with  the  poor.  Next  to 
amusement  as  a  means  of  giving  temporary  relief 
and  bringing  about  relations  which  will  be  helpful  to 
all,  I  put  instruction,  in  the  form  of  narrative,  about 
the  people  of  other  countries,  our  fellow  man,  how 
he  lives  and  works ;  and,  third,  under  this  same  head, 
primitive  lessons  about  animals  and  plants,  the 
industries  of  the  bees,  the  habits  of  ants,  the  natural 
phenomena  which  require  no  reasoning  power  to 
understand  and  which  open  the  thoughts  upon  a 
delightful  unknown  vista. 

My  first  experience  is  drawing  to  its  close.  I  have 
surmounted  the  discomforts  of  insufficient  food,  of 
dirt,  a  bed  without  sheets,  the  strain  of  hard  manual 
labour.  I  have  confined  my  observations  to  life 
and  conditions  in  the  factory.  Owing,  as  I  have 
before  explained,  to  the  absorption  of  factory  life 
into  city  life  in  a  place  as  large  as  Pittsburg,  it 
seemed  to  me  more  profitable  to  centre  my  attention 
on  the  girl  within  the  factory,  leaving  for  a  small 
town  the  study  of  her  in  her  family  and  social  life. 
I  have  pointed  out  as  they  appeared  to  me  woman's 
relative  force  as  a  worker  and  its  effects  upon  her 
economic  advancement.  I  have  touched  upon  two 
cases  which  illustrate  her  relative  dependence  on 
the  law.  She  appeared  to  me  not  as  the  equal  of 
man  either  physically  or  legally.  It  remained  to 
study  her  socially.  In  the  factory  where  I  worked 
men  and  women  were  employed  for  ten-hour  days. 


54  THE    WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

The  women's  highest  wages  were  lower  than  the 
man's  lowest.  Both  were  working  as  hard  as  they 
possibly  could.  The  women  were  doing  menial 
work,  such  as  scrubbing,  which  the  men  refused  to 
do.  The  men  were  properly  fed  at  noon;  the 
women  satisfied  themselves  with  cake  and  pickles. 
Why  was  this?  It  is  of  course  impossible  to  gen- 
eralize on  a  single  factory.  I  can  only  relate  the 
conclusions  I  drew  from  what  I  saw  myself.  The 
wages  paid  by  employers,  economists  tell  us,  are 
fixed  at  the  level  of  bare  subsistence.  This  level 
and  its  accompanying  conditions  are  determined  by 
competition,  by  the  nature  and  number  of  labourers 
taking  part  in  the  competition.  In  the  masculine 
category  I  met  but  one  class  pf  competitor:  the 
bread-winner.  In  the  feminine  category  I  found 
a  variety  of  classes-:  the  bread-winner,  the  semi- 
bread-winner,  the  woman  who  works  for  luxuries. 
This  inevitably  drags  the  wage  level.  The  self- 
supporting  girl  is  in  competition  with  the  child,  with 
the  girl  who  lives  at  home  and  makes  a  small  con- 
tribution to  the  household  expenses,  and  with  the 
girl  who  is  supported  and  who  spends  all  her  money 
on  her  clothes.  It  is  this  division  of  purpose  which 
takes  the  "spirit"  out  of  them  as  a  class.  There  will 
be  no  strikes  among  them  so  long  as  the  question 
of  wages  is  not  equally  vital  to  them  all.  It  is  not 
only  nature  and  the  law  which  demand  protection 
for  women,  but  society  as  well.  In  every  case  of 


IN   A   PITTSBURG  FACTORY  55 

the  number  I  investigated,  if  there  were  sons, 
daughters  or  a  husband  in  the  family,  the  mother 
was  not  allowed  to  work.  She  was  wholly  protected. 
In  the  families  where  the  father  and  brothers  were 
making  enough  for  bread  and  butter,  the  daughters 
were  protected  partially  or  entirely.  There  is  no 
law  which  regulates  this  social  protection:  it  is 
voluntary,  and  it  would  seem  to  indicate  that 
civilized  woman  is  meant  to  be  an  economic  depen- 
dent. Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  what  is  the  new  force 
which  impels  girls  from  their  homes  into  the  factories 
to  work  when  they  do  not  actually  need  the  money 
paid  them  for  their  effort  and  sacrifice?  Is  it  a 
move  toward  some  far  distant  civilization  when 
women  shall  have  become  man's  physical  equal,  a 
"free,  economic,  social  factor,  making  possible  the 
full  social  combination  of  individuals  in  collective 
industry"  ?  This  is  a  matter  for  speculation  only. 
What  occurred  to  me  as  a  possible  remedy  both  for 
the  oppression  of  the  woman  bread-winner  and  also 
as  a  betterment  for  the  girl  who  wants  to  work 
though  she  does  not  need  the  money,  was  this:  the 
establishment  of  schools  where  the  esthetic  branches 
of  industrial  art  might  be  taught  to  the  girls  who  by 
their  material  independence  could  give  some  leisure 
to  acquiring  a  profession  useful  to  themselves  and 
to  society  in  general.  The  whole  country  would  be 
benefited  by  the  opening  of  such  schools  as  the 
Empress  of  Russia  has  patronized  for  the  main- 


56  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

tenance  of  the  "petites  industries,"  or  those  which 
Queen  Margherita  has  established  for  the  revival  of 
lace-making  in  Italy.  If  there  was  such  a  counter- 
attraction  to  machine  labour,  the  bread-winner 
would  have  a  freer  field  and  the  non-bread-winner 
might  still  work  for  luxury  and  at  the  same  time 
better  herself  morally,  mentally  and  esthetically. 
She  could  aid  in  forming  an  intermediate  class  of 
labourers  which  as  yet  does  not  exist  in  America: 
the  hand-workers,  the  main  d'oeuvre  who  produce 
the  luxurious  objects  of  industrial  art  for  which  we 
are  obliged  to  send  to  Europe  when  we  wish  to 
beautify  our  homes. 

The  American  people  are  lively,  intelligent,  capable 
of  learning  anything.  The  schools  of  which  I  speak, 
founded,  not  for  the  manufacturing  of  the  useful  but 
of  the  beautiful,  could  be  started  informally  as 
classes  and  by  individual  effort.  Such  labour  would 
be  paid  more  than  the  mechanical  factory  work ;  the 
immense  importation  from  abroad  of  objects  of 
industrial  art  sufficiently  proves  the  demand  for  them 
in  this  country;  there  would  be  no  material  disad- 
vantage for  the  girl  who  gave  up  her  job  in  a  pickle 
factory.  Her  faculties  would  be  well  employed,  and 
she  could,  without  leaving  her  home,  do  work  which 
would  be  of  esthetic  and,  indirectly,  of  moral  value. 

I  was  discouraged  at  first  to  see  how  difficult  it 
was  to  help  the  working  girls  as  individuals  and  how 
still  more  difficult  to  help  them  as  a  class.  There  is 


IN  A  PITTSBURG  FACTORY  57 

perhaps  no  surer  way  of  doing  this  than  by  giving 
opportunities  to  those  who  have  a  purpose  and  a 
will.  No  amount  of  openings  will  help  the  girl  who 
has  not  both  of  these.  I  watched  many  girls  with 
intelligence  and  energy  who  were  unable  to  develop 
for  the  lack  of  a  chance  a  start  in  the  right  direction. 
Aside  from  the  few  remedies  I  have  been  able  to 
suggest,  I  would  like  to  make  an  appeal  for  persistent 
sympathy  in  behalf  of  those  whose  misery  I  have 
shared.  Until  some  marvelous  advancement  has 
been  made  toward  the  reign  of  justice  upon  earth, 
every  man,  woman  and  child  should  have  constantly 
in  his  heart  the  sufferings  of  the  poorest. 

On  the  evening  when  I  left  the  factory  for  the  last 
time,  I  heard  in  the  streets  the  usual  cry  of  mur- 
ders, accidents  and  suicides :  the  mental  food  of  the 
overworked.  It  is  Saturday  night.  I  mingle  with  a 
crowd  of  labourers  homeward  bound,  and  with 
women  and  girls  returning  from  a  Saturday  sale  in 
the  big  shops,  They  hurry  along  delighted  at  the 
cheapness  of  a  bargain,  little  dreaming  of  the  human 
effort  that  has  produced  it,  the  cost  of  life  and 
energy  it  represents.  As  they  pass,  they  draw 
their  skirts  aside  from  us,  the  labourers  who  have 
made  their  bargains  cheap ;  from  us,  the  cooperators 
who  enable  them  to  have  the  luxuries  they  do ;  from 
us,  the  multitude  who  stand  between  them  and  the 
monster  Toil  that  must  be  fed  with  human  lives. 
Think  of  us,  as  we  herd  to  our  work  in  the  winter 


58  THE    WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

dawn;  think  of  us  as  we  bend  over  our  task  all 
the  daylight  without  rest;  think  of  us  at  the  end 
of  the  day  as  we  resume  suffering  and  anxiety  in 
homes  of  squalour  and  ugliness ;  think  of  us  as  we 
make  our  wretched  try  for  merriment;  think  of 
us  as  we  stand  protectors  between  you  and  the 
labour  that  must  be  done  to  satisfy  your  material 
demands;  think  of  us — be  merciful. 


"  WAVING     ARMS    OF    SMOKE     AND     STEAM,    A    SYMBOL     OF    SPENT 
ENERGY,  OF    THE    LIVES    CONSUMED.    AND    VANISHING   AGAIN  " 

Factories   on  the   Alleghany    River    at    the    i6th  Street   bridge,  just  below 
the  pickle  works 


PERRY,  A  NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN 


CHAPTER  III 
PERRY,  A  NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN 

No  place  in  America  could  have  afforded  better 
than  Pittsburg  a  chance  to  study  the  factory  life  of 
American  girls,  the  stimulus  of  a  new  country  upon 
the  labourers  of  old  races,  the  fervour  and  energy 
of  a  people  animated  by  hope  and  stirred  to  activity 
by  the  boundless  opportunities  for  making  money. 
It  is  the  labourers'  city  par  excellence;  and  in  my 
preceding  chapters  I  have  tried  to  give  a  clear 
picture  of  factory  life  between  the  hours  of  seven 
and  six,  of  the  economic  conditions,  of  the  natural 
social  and  legal  equipment  of  woman  as  a  working 
entity,  of  her  physical,  moral  and  esthetic  develop- 
ment. 

Now,  since  the  time  ticked  out  between  the  morn- 
ing summoning  whistle  to  that  which  gives  release 
at  night  is  not  half  the  day,  and  only  two-thirds 
of  the  working  hours,  my  second  purpose  has  been 
to  find  a  place  where  the  factory  girl's  own  life 
could  best  be  studied:  her  domestic,  religious  and 
sentimental  life. 

Somewhere  in  the  western  part  of  New  York  State, 
one  of  my  comrades  at  the  pickle  works  had  told  me, 

61 


62  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

there  was  a  town  whose  population  was  chiefly 
composed  of  mill-hands.  The  name  of  the  place 
was  Perry,  and  I  decided  upon  it  as  offering  the 
typical  American  civilization  among  the  working 
classes.  New  England  is  too  free  of  grafts  to  give 
more  than  a  single  aspect;  Pittsburg  is  an  inter- 
national 'bazaar;  but  the  foundations  of  Perry  are 
laid  with  bricks  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  held 
together  by  a  strong  American  cement. 

Ignorant  of  Perry  further  than  as  it  exists,  a  black 
spot  on  a  branch  of  a  small  road  near  Buffalo,  I  set 
out  from  New  York  toward  my  destination  on  the 
Empire  State  Express.  There  was  barely  time  to 
descend  with  my  baggage  at  Rochester  before  the 
engine  had  started  onward  again,  trailing  behind  it 
with  world-renowned  rapidity  its  freight  of  travelers 
who,  for  a  few  hours  under  the  car's  roof,  are  united 
by  no  other  common  interest  than  that  of  journeying 
quickly  from  one  spot  to  another,  where  they  disperse 
never  to  meet  again.  My  Perry  train  had  an  alto- 
gether different  character.  I  was  late  for  it,  but  the 
brakeman  saw  me  coming  and  waved  to  the  engineer 
not  to  start  until  my  trunk  was  checked  and  safely 
boarded  like  myself.  Then  we  bumped  our  way 
through  meadows  quickened  to  life  by  the  soft 
spring  air ;  we  halted  at  crossroads  to  pick  up  stray 
travelers  and  shoppers;  we  unloaded  plowing 
machines  and  shipped  crates  of  live  fowl;  we 
waited  at  wayside  stations  with  high-sounding  names 


PERRY,    A   NEW   YORK   MILL  TOWN   63 

for  family  parties  whose  unpunctuality  was  indul- 
gently considered  by  the  occupants  of  the  train.  - 

My  companions,  chiefly  women,  were  of  the 
homely  American  type  whose  New  England  drawl 
has  been  modified  by  a  mingling  of  foreign  accents. 
They  took  advantage  of  this  time  for  "visiting"  with 
neighbours  whom  the  winter  snows  and  illnesses 
had  rendered  inaccessible.  Their  inquiries  for  each 
other  were  all  kindliness  and  sympathy,  and  the 
peaceful,  tolerant,  uneventful  way  in  which  we 
journeyed  from  Rochester  to  Perry  was  a  symbol  of 
the  way  in  which  these  good  people  had  journeyed 
across  life.  Perry,  the  terminus  of  the  line,  was  a 
frame  station  lodged  on  stilts  in  a  sea  of  surround- 
ing mud.  When  the  engine  had  come  to  a  standstill 
and  ceased  to  pant,  when  the  last  truck  had  been 
unloaded,  the  baggage  room  closed,  there  were  no 
noises  to  be  heard  except  those  that  came  from  a 
neighbouring  country  upon  whose  peace  the  small 
town  had  not  far  encroached ;  the  splash  of  a  horse 
and  buggy  through  the  mud,  a  monotonous  voice 
mingling  with  the  steady  tick  of  the  telegraph 
machine,  some  distant  barnyard  chatter,  and  the 
mysterious,  invisible  stir  of  spring  shaking  out  upon 
the  air  damp  sweet  odours  calling  the  earth  to  colour 
and  life.  Descending  the  staircase  which  connected 
the  railroad  station  with  the  hill  road  on  which  it 
was  perched,  I  joined  a  man  who  was  swinging  along 
in  rubber  boots,  with  several  fanning  tools,  rakes 


64  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

and  hoes,  slung  over  his  shoulder.  A  repugnance  I 
had  felt  in  resuming  my  toil-worn  clothes  had  led  me 
to  make  certain  modifications  which  I  feared  in  so 
small  a  town  as  Perry  might  relegate  me  to  the  class 
I  had  voluntarily  abandoned.  The  man  in  rubber 
boots  looked  me  over  as  I  approached,  bag  in  hand, 
and  to  my"  salutation  he  replied : 

"Going  down  to  the  mill,  I  suppose.  There's  lots 
o'  ladies  comes  in  the  train  every  day  now." 

He  was  the  perfection  of  tact;  he  placed  me  in 
one  sentence  as  a  mill-hand  and  a  lady. 

"I'll  take  you  down  as  far  as  Main  Street,"  he 
vblunteered,  giving  me  at  once  a  feeling  of  kindly 
interest  which  "city  folks"  have  not  time  to  show. 

We  found  our  way  by  improvised  crossings  through 
broad,  soft  beds  of  mud.  Among  the  branches  of 
the  sap-fed  trees  which  lined  the  tinpaved  streets 
transparent  balls  of  glass  were  suspended,  from 
which,  as  twilight  deepened,  a  brilliant  artificial 
light  shot  its  rays,  the  perfection  of  modern  inven- 
tion, over  the  primitive,  unfinished  little  town  of 
Perry,  which  was  all  contrast  and  energy,  crudity 
and  progress. 

"There's  a  lot  of  the  girls  left  the  mill  yesterday," 
my  companion  volunteered.  "They  eut  the  wages, 
and  some  of  the  oldest  hands  got  right  out.  There's 
more  than  a  thousand  of  'em  on  the  pay-roll,  but  I 
guess  you  can  make  good  money  if  you're  ready  to 
work." 


PERRY,   A   NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN   65 

We  had  reached  Main  Street,  which,  owing  to  the 
absence  of  a  trolley,  had  retained  a  certain  individu- 
ality. The  rivers  of  mud  broadened  out  into  a 
sea,  flanked  by  a  double  row  of  two-story,  flat-roofed 
frame  stores,  whose  monotony  was  interrupted  by 
a  hotel  and  a  town  hall.  My  guide  stopped  at  a 
corner  butcher  shop.  Its  signboard  was  a  couple 
of  mild-eyed  animals  hanging  head  downward,  pre- 
sented informally,  with  their  skins  untouched,  and 
having  more  the  appearance  of  some  ill-treated 
pets  than  future  beef  and  bouillon  for  the  Perry 
population. 

"Follow  the  boardwalk ! "  was  the  simple  com- 
mand I  received.  "Keep  right  along  until  you 
come  to  the  mill." 

I  presently  fell  in  with  a  drayman,  who  was  call- 
ing alternately  to  his  horse  as  it  sucked  in  and 
out  of  the  mud  and  to  a  woman  on  the  plank 
walk.  She  had  on  a  hat  with  velvet  and  ostrich 
plumes,  a  black  frock,  a  side  bag  with  a  lace 
handkerchief.  She  was  not  young  and  she  wore 
spectacles;  but  there  was  something  nervous  about 
her  step,  a  slight  tremolo  as  she  responded  to  the 
'drayman,  which  suggested  an  adventure  or  the  hope 
of  it.  The  boardwalk,  leading  inevitably  to  the 
mill,  announced  our  common  purpose  and  saved 
us  an  introduction. 

"Going  down  to  get  work?"  was  the  question  we 
simultaneously  asked  of  each  other.  My  companion, 


66  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

all  eagerness,  shook  out  the  lace  handkerchief  in  her 
side  bag  and  explained : 

"I  don't  have  to  work;  my  folks  keep  a  hotel;  but 
I  always  heard  so  much  about  Perry  I  thought  I'd 
like  to  come  up,  and,"  she  sighed,  with  a  flirt  of  the 
lace  handkerchief  and  a  contented  glance  around 
at  the  rows  of  white  frame  houses,  "I'm  up  now." 

"Want  board  ?"  the  drayman  called  to  me.  "You 
kin  count  on  me  for  a  good  place.  There's  Doctor 
Meadows,  now;  he's  got  a  nice  home  and  he  just 
wants  two  boarders." 

The  middle-aged  woman  with  the  glasses  glanced 
up  quickly. 

"Doctor  Meadows  of  Tittihute?"  she  asked.  "I 
wont  go  there;  he's  too  strict.  He's  a  Methodist 
minister.  You  couldn't  have  any  fun  at  all." 

I  followed  suit,  denouncing  Doctor  Killjoy  as  she 
had,  hoping  that  her  nervous,  frisky  step  would  lead 
me  toward  the  adventure  she  was  evidently  seeking. 

"Well,"  the  drayman  responded  indulgently,  "I 
guess  Mr.  Norse  will  know  the  best  place  for  you 
folks." 

We  had  come  at  once  to  the  factory  and  the  end 
of  the  boardwalk.  It  was  but  a  few  minutes  before- 
Mr.  Norse  had  revealed  himself  as  the  pivot,  the 
human  hub,  the  magnet  around  which  the  mechanism 
of  the  mill  revolved  and  clung,  sure  of  finding  its 
proper  balance.  Tall,  lank  and  meager,  with  a 
wrinkled  face  and*  a  furtive  mustache,  Mr.  Norse 


PERRY,   A   NEW   YORK  MILL  TOWN   67 

made  his  rounds  with  a  list  of  complaints  and  com- 
ments in  one  hand,  a  pencil  in  the  other  and  a  black 
cap  on  his  head  which  tipped,  indulgent,  attentive 
to  hear  and  overhear.  His  manner  was  professional. 
He  looked  at  us,  placed  us,  told  us  to  return  at  one 
o'clock,  recommended  a  boarding-house,  and,  on  his 
way  to  some  other  case,  sent  a  small  boy  to  accom- 
pany us  on  future  stretches  of  boardwalk  to  our 
lodgings.  The  street  we  followed  ended  in  a  rolling 
hillside,  and  beyond  was  the  mysterious  blue  that 
holds  something  of  the  infinite  in  its  mingling  of 
clouds  and  shadows.  The  Geneseo  Valley  lay  near 
us  like  a  lake  under  the  sky,  and  silhouetted  against 
it  were  the  factory  chimney  and  buildings.  The 
wood's  edge  came  close  to  the  town,  whose  yards 
prolong  themselves  into  green  meadows  and  farming 
lands.  We  knocked  at  a  rusty  screen  door  and 
were  welcomed  with  the  cordiality  of  the  country 
woman  to  whom  all  folks  are  neighbours,  all  strangers 
possible  boarders.  The  house,  built  without  mantel- 
piece or  chimney,  atoned  for  this  cheerlessness  with  a 
large  parlour  stove,  whose  black  arms  carried  warmth 
through  floor  and  ceiling.  A  table  was  spread  in  the 
dining-room.  A  loud-ticking  clock  with  a  rusty 
bell  marked  the  hour  from  a  shelf  on  the  wall,  and 
out  of  the  kitchen,  seen  in  vista,  came  a  spluttering 
sound  of  frying  food.  Our  hostess  took  us  into 
the  parlour.  Several  family  pictures  of  stony-eyed 
women  and  men  with  chin  beards,  and  a  life-sized 


68  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

Frances  Willard  in  chromo,  looked  down  at  our 
ensuing  interview. 

Board,  lodging,  heat  and  light  we  could  have  at 
$2.75  a  week.  Before  the  husky  clock  had  struck 
twelve,  I  was  installed  in  a  small  room  with  the 
middle-aged  woman  from  Batavia  and  a  second 
unknown  roommate. 

Now  what,  I  asked  myself,  is  the  mill's  attraction 
and  what  is  the  power  of  this  small  town?  Its 
population  is  3,346.  Of  these,  1,000  work  in  the 
knitting-mill,  200  more  in  a  cutlery  factory  and 
300  in  various  flour,  butter,  barrel,  planing  mills  and 
salt  blocks.  Half  the  inhabitants  are  young  hands. 
Not  one  in  a  hundred  has  a  home  in  Perry;  they 
have  come  from  all  western  parts  of  the  State  to  work. 
There  are  scarcely  any  children,  few  married  couples 
and  almost  no  old  people.  It  is  a  town  of  youthful 
contemporaries,  stung  with  the  American's  ambition 
for  independence  and  adventure,  charmed  by  the 
gaiety  of  being  boys  and  girls  together,  with  an  ever 
possible  touch  of  romance  which  makes  the  hardest 
work  seem  easy.  Within  the  four  board  walls  of 
each  house,  whose  type  is  repeated  up  and  down 
Perry  streets,  there  is  a  group  of  factory  employees 
boarding  and  working  at  the  mill.  Their  names 
suggest  a  foreign  parentage,  but  for  several  genera- 
tions they  have  mingled  their  diverse  energies  in  a 
common  effort  which  makes  Americans  of  them. 

As  I  lived  for  several  weeks  among  a  group  of  this 


PERRY,   A   NEW   YORK   MILL  TOWN   69 

kind,  who  were  fairly  representative,  I  shall  try  to 
give,  through  a  description  of  their  life  and  conversa- 
tion, their  personalities  and  characteristics,  their 
occupations  out  of  working  hours,  a  general  idea  of 
these  unknown  toilers,  who  are  so  amazingly  like 
their  more  fortunate  sisters  that  I  became  convinced 
the  difference  is  only  superficial — not  one  of  kind 
but  merely  of  variety.  The  Perry  factory  girl  is 
separated  from  the  New  York  society  girl,  not  by  a 
few  generations,  but  by  a  few  years  of  culture  and 
training.  In  America,  where  tradition  and  family 
play  an  unimportant  part,  the  great  educator  is  the 
spending  of  money.  It  is  through  the  purchase  of 
possessions  that  the  Americans  develop  their  taste, 
declare  themselves,  and  show  their  inherent  capacity 
for  culture.  Give  to  the  Perry  mill-hands  a  free 
chance  for  growth,  transplant  them,  care  for  them, 
and  they  will  readily  show  how  slight  and  how  merely 
a  thing  of  culture  the  difference  is  between  the  wild 
rose  and  the  American  beauty. 

What  were  my  first  impressions  of  the  hands  who 
returned  at  noon  under  the  roof  which  had  extended 
unquestioning  its  hospitality  ?  Were  they  a  band  of 
slaves,  victims  to  toil  and  deprivation  ?  Were  they 
making  the  pitiful  exchange  of  their  total  vitality 
for  insufficient  nourishment?  Did  life  mean  to 
them  merely  the  diminishing  of  their  forces? 

On  the  contrary,  they  entered,  gay,  laughing 
young,  a  youth  guarded  intact  by  freedom  and 


70  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

hope.  What  were  the  subjects  of  conversation 
pursued  at  dinner?  Love,  labour,  the  price  paid 
for  it,  the  advantages  of  town  over  country  life,  the 
neighbour  and  her  conduct.  What  was  the  appear- 
ance of  my  companions?  There  was  nothing  in  it 
to  shock  good  taste.  Their  hands  and  feet  were 
somewhat  broadened  by  work,  their  skins  were 
imperfect  for  the  lack  of  proper  food,  their  dresses 
were  of  coarse  material;  but  in  small  things  the 
differences  were  superficial  only.  Was  it,  then,  in 
big  things  that  the  divergence  began  which  places 
them  as  a  lower  class?  Was  it  money  alone  that 
kept  them  from  the  places  of  authority?  What 
were  their  ambitions,  their  perplexities?  What 
part  does  self-respect  play  ?  How  well  satisfied  are 
they,  or  how  restless?  What  can  we  learn  from 
them?  What  can  we  teach  them? 

We  ate  our  dinner  of  boiled  meat  and  custard  pie 
and  all  started  back  in  good  time  for  a  one  o  'clock 
beginning  at  the  mill.  For  the  space  of  several 
hundred  feet  its  expressionless  red  brick  walls  lined 
the  street,  implacable,  silent.  Within  all  hummed 
to  the  collective  activity  of  a  throng,  each  working 
with  all  his  force  for  a  common  end.  Machines 
roared  and  pounded;  a  fine  dust  filled  the  air — a 
cloud  of  lint  sent  forth  from  the  friction  of  thousands 
of  busy  hands  in  perpetual  contact  with  the  shapeless 
anonymous  garments  they  were  fashioning.  There 
were,  on  their  way  between  the  cutting-  and  the 


"THEY    TRIFLE    WITH    LOVE" 


PERRY,   A   NEW  YORK   MILL  TOWN    71 

finishing-rooms,  7,000  dozen  shirts.  They  were  to 
pass  by  innumerable  hands ;  they  were  to  be  held  and 
touched  by  innumerable  individuals;  they  were  to 
be  begun  and  finished  by  innumerable  human  beings 
with  distinct  tastes  and  likings,  abilities  and  failings ; 
and  when  the  7,000  dozen  shirts  were  complete  they 
were  to  look  alike,  and  they  were  to  look  as  though 
made  by  a  machine-;  they  were  to  show  no  trace 
whatever  of  the  men  and  the -women  who  had  made 
them.  Here  we  were,  1,000  souls  hurrying  from 
morning  until  night,  working  from  seven  until  six, 
with  as  little  personality  as  we  could,  with  the 
effort  to  produce,  through  an  action  purely  mechan- 
ical, results  as  nearly  as  possible  identical  one  to  the 
other,  and  all  to  the  machine  itself. 

What  could  be  the  result  upon  the  mind  and 
health  of  this  frantic  mechanical  activity  devoid  of 
thought  ?  It  was  this  for  which  I  sought  an  answer ; 
it  is  for  this  I  propose  a  remedy. 

At  the  threshold  of  the  mill  door  my  roommate 
and  I  encountered  Mr.  Norse.  There  was  irony  in 
the  fates  allotted  us.  She  was  eager  to  make 
money ;  I  was  indifferent.  Mr.  Norse  felt  her  in  his 
power;  I  felt  him  in  mine.  She  was  given  a  job  at 
twenty-five  cents  a  day  and  all  she  could  make;  I 
was  offered  the  favourite  work  in  the  mill — shirt 
finishing,  at  thirty  cents  a  day  and  all  I  could  make ; 
and  when  I  shook  my  head  to  see  how  far  I  could 
exploit  my  indifference  and  said,  "  Thirty  cents  is 


72  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

too  little,"  Mr.  Norse's  answer  was:  "Well,  I 
suppose  you,  like  the  rest  of  us,  are  trying  to  earn  a 
living.  I  will  guarantee  you  seventy-five  cents  a 
day  for  the  first  two  weeks,  and  all  you  can  make 
over  it  is  yours."  My  apprenticeship  began  under 
the  guidance  of  an  "old  girl"  who  had  been  five 
years  in  the  mill.  A  dozen  at  a  time  the  woolen 
shirts  were  brought  to  us,  complete  all  but  the  adding 
of  the  linen  strips  in .  front  where  the  buttons  and 
buttonholes  are  stitched.  The  price  of  this  opera- 
tion is  paid  for  the  dozen  shirts  five,  five  and  a  half 
and  six  cents,  according  to  the  complexity  of  the 
finish.  My  instructress  had  done  as  many  as  forty 
dozen  in  one  day;  she  averaged  $1.75  a  day  all  the 
year  around.  While  she  was  teaching  me  the  factory 
paid  her  at  the  rate  of  ten  cents  an  hour. 

A  touch  of  the  machine's  pedal  set  the  needle  to 
stitching  like  mad.  A  second  touch  in  the  opposite 
direction  brought  it  to  an  abrupt  standstill.  For 
the  five  hours  of  my  first  afternoon  session  there 
was  not  an  instant's  harmony  between  what  I  did 
and  what  I  intended  to  do.  I  sewed  frantically  into 
the  middle  of  shirts.  I  watched  my  needle,  impotent 
as  it  flew  up  and  down,  and  when  by  chance  I  made 
a  straight  seam  I  brought  it  to  so  sudden  a  stop 
that  the  thread  raveled  back  before  my  weary 
eyes.  When  my  back  and  ringers  ached  so  that  I 
could  no  longer  bend  over  the  work,  I  watched 
my  comrades  with  amazement.  The  machine  was 


PERRY,   A   NEW  YORK   MILL  TOWN   73 

not  a  wild  animal  in  their  hands,  but  an  instrument 
that  responded  with  niceness  to  their  guidance. 
Above  the  incessant  roar  and  burring  din  they  called 
gaily  to  each  other,  gossiping,  chatting,  telling 
stories.  What  did  they  talk  about?  Everything, 
except  domestic  cares.  The  management  of  an 
interior,  housekeeping,  cooking  were  things  I  never 
once  heard  mentioned.  What  were  the  favourite 
topics,  those  returned  to  most  frequently  and  with 
surest  interest  ?  Dress  and  men.  Two  girls  in  the 
seaming-room  had  got  into  a  quarrel  that  day  over 
a  packer,  a  fine  looking,  broad-shouldered  fellow 
who  had  touched  the  hearts  of  both  and  awakened 
in  each  an  emotion  she  claimed  the  right  to  defend. 
The  quarrel  began  lightly  with  an  exchange  of 
unpleasant  comment;  it  soon  took  the  proportions 
of  a  dispute  which  could  not  give  itself  the  desired 
vent  in  words  alone.  •  The  boss  was  called  in.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  control  what  lay  beyond  his 
power,  but  applying  factory  legislation  to  the  case, 
he  ordered  the  two  Amazons  to  "register  out"  until 
the  squabble  was  settled,  as  the  factory  did  not 
propose  to  pay  its  hands  for  the  time  spent  in  fights. 
So  the  two  girls  "rang  out"  past  the  timekeeper 
and  took  an  hour  in  the  open  air,  hand  to  hand, 
fist  to  fist,  which,  as  it  happens  to  man,  had  its 
calming  effect. 

We  stitched  our  way  industriously  over  the  7,000 
dozen.     Except   for  the  moments  when  some  girl 


74  THE  WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

called  a  message  or  shouted  a  conversation,  there  was 
nothing  to  occupy  the  mind  but  the  vibrating, 
pulsing,  pounding  of  the  machinery.  The  body 
was  shaken  with  it ;  the  ears  strained. 

The  little  girl  opposite  me  was  a  new  hand.  Her 
rosy  cheeks  and  straight  shoulders  announced  this 
fact.  .She  had  been  five  months  in  the  mill;  the 
other  girls  around  her  had  been  there  two  years, 
five  years,  nine  years.  There  were  150  of  us  at  the 
long,  narrow  tables  which  filled  the  room.  By  the 
windows  the  light  and  air  were  fairly  good.  At  the 
centre  tables  the  atmosphere  was  stagnant,  the 
shadows  came  too  soon.  The  wood's  edge  ran 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  factory  windows.  Between 
it  and  us  lay  the  stream,  the  water  force,  the  power 
that  had  called  men  to  Perry.  There,  as  everywhere 
in  America,  for  an  individual  as  for  a  place,  the 
attraction  was  industrial  possibilities.  As  Niagara 
has  become  more  an  industrial  than  a  picturesque 
landscape,  so  Perry,  in  spite  of  its  serene  and 
beautiful  surroundings,  is  a  shrine  to  mechanical 
force  in  whose  temple,  the  tall-chimneyed  mill,  a 
human  sacrifice  is  made  to  the  worshipers  of  gain. 

My  vis-a-vis  was  talkative.  "Say,"  she  said  to 
her  neighbour,  "Jim  Weston  is  the  worst  flirt  I  ever 
seen." 

"Who's  Jim  Weston?"  the  other  responded, 
diving  into  the  box  by  her  side  for  a  handful  of  gray 
woolen  shirts. 


PERRY,   A   NEW   YORK  MILL  TOWN    75 

"  Why,  he's  the  one  who  made  my  teeth — he  made 
teeth  for  all  of  us  up  home,"  and  her  smile  reveals  the 
handiwork  of  Weston. 

"  If  I  had  false  teeth,"  is  the  comment  made  upon 
this,  "I  wouldn't  tell  anybody." 

"I  thought  some,"  continues  the  implacable  new 
girl,  unruffled,  "  of  having  a  gold  filling  put  in  one  of 
my  front  teeth.  I  think  gold  fillings  are  so  pretty," 
she  concludes,  looking  toward  me  for  a  response. 

This  primitive  love  of  ornament  I  found  manifest 
in  the  same  medico-barbaric  fancy  for  wearing  eye- 
glasses. The  nicety  of  certain  operations  in  the  mill, 
performed  not  always  in  the  brightest  of  lights,  is 
a  fatal  strain  upon  the  eyes.  There  are  no  oculists 
in  Perry,  but  a  Buffalo  member  of  the  profession 
makes  a  monthly  visit  to  treat  a  new  harvest  of 
patients.  Their  daily  effort  toward  the  monthly 
finishing  of  40,000  garments  permanently  diminishes 
their  powers  of  vision.  Every  thirty  days  a  new  set 
of  girls  appears  with  glasses.  They  wear  them  as 
they  would  an  ornament  of  some  kind,  a  necklace, 
bracelet  or  a  hoop  through  the  nose. 

When  the  six  o'clock  whistle  blew  on  the  first 
night  I  had  finished  only  two  dozen  shirts.  "You've 
got  a  good  job,"  my  teacher  said,  as  we  came  out 
together  in  the  cool  evening  air.  "You  seem  to  be 
taking  to  it."  They  size  a  girl  up  the  minute  she 
comes  in.  If  she  has  quick  motions  she'll  get  on 
all  right.  "I  guess  you'll  make  a  good  finisher." 


76  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

Once  more  we  assembled  to  eat  and  chat  and  relax. 
After  a  moment  by  the  kitchen  pump  we  took  our 
places  at  table.  Our  hostess  waited  upon  us.  "It 
takes  some  grit,"  she  explained,  "and  more  grace  to 
keep  boarders."  Except  on  Sundays,  when  all  men 
might  be  considered  equals  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord, 
she  and  her  husband  did  not  eat  until  we  had  finished. 
She  passed  the  dishes  of  our  frugal  evening  meal — 
potatoes,  bread  and  butter  and  cake — and  as  we 
served  ourselves  she  held  her  head  in  the  opposite 
direction,  as  if  to  say,  "I'm  not  looking;  take  the 
biggest  piece." 

It  was  with  my  roommates  I  became  the  soonest 
acquainted.  The  butcher's  widow  from  Batavia 
was  a  grumbler.  "How  do  you  like  your  job?"  I 
asked  her  as  we  fumbled  about  in  the  dim  light  of 
our  low-roofed  room. 

"Oh,  Lordy,"  was  the  answer,  "I  didn't  think  it 
would  be  like  this.  I'd  rather  do  housework  any 
day.  I  bet  you  won't  stay  two  weeks."  She  was 
ugly  and  stupid.  She  had  been  married  young  to 
a  butcher.  Left  alone  to  battle  with  the  world,  she 
might  have  shaken  out  some  of  her  dullness,  but  the 
butcher  for  many  years  had  stood  between  her  and 
reality,  casting  a  still  deeper  shadow  on  her  ignorance. 
She  had  the  monotony  of  an  old  child,  one  who 
questions  constantly  but  who  has  passed  the  age 
when  learning  is  possible.  The  butcher's  death  had 
opened  new  possibilities.  After  a  period  of  respectful 


PERRY,   A   NEW  .YORK  MILL  TOWN    77 

mourning,  she  had  set  out,  against  the  wishes  of 
her  family,  with  a  vague,  romantic  hope  that  was 
expressed  not  so  much  in  words  as  in  a  certain 
picture  hat  trimmed  with  violet  chiffon  and  carried 
carefully  in  a  bandbox  by  itself,  a  new,  crisp  sateen 
petticoat,  and  a  golf  skirt  she  had  sat  up  until  one 
o'clock  to  finish  the  night  before  she  left  home.  It 
was  inevitable  that  the  butcher's  widow  should  be 
disappointed.  There  was  too  much  grim  reality  in 
ten-hour  days  spent  over  a  machine  in  the  stifling 
mill  room  to  feed  a  sentimentalist  whose  thirty  odd 
years  were  no  accomplice  to  romance.  She  grumbled 
and  complained.  Secret  dissatisfaction  preyed  upon 
her.  She  was  somewhat  exasperate^,  at  the  rest  of 
us,  who  worked  cheerily  and  with  no  arriere  pensee. 
At  the  end  of  the  first  week  the  picture  hat  was 
tucked  away  in  the  bandbox;  the  frou-frou  of  the 
sateen  petticoat  and  the  daring  swish  of  the  golf 
skirt  were  packed  up,  like  the  remains  of  a  bubble 
that  had  reflected  the  world  in  its  brilliant  sides  one 
moment  and  the  next  lay  a  little  heap  of  soap-suds. 
She  had  gone  behind  in  her  work  steadily  at  the 
factory ;  she  was  not  making  more  than  sixty  cents  a 
day.  She  left  us  and  went  back  to  do  housework  in 
Batavia. 

My  other  roommate  was  of  the  Madonna  type. 
In  our  class  she  would  have  been  called  an  invalid. 
Her  hands  trembled,  she  was  constantly  in  pain,  and 
her  nerves  were  rebellious  without  frequent  doses  of 


78  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

bromide.  We  found  her  one  night  lying  in  a  heap 
on  the  bed,  her  moans  having  called  us  to  her  aid. 
It  was  the  pain  in  her  back  that  never  stopped,  the 
ache  between  her  shoulders,  the  din  of  the  machines 
in  her  ears,  the  vibration,  the  strain  of  incessant 
hours  upon  her  tired  nerves.  We  fixed  her  up  as 
best  we  could,  and  the  next  day  at  quarter  before 
seven  she  was,  like  the  rest  of  us,  bending  over  her 
machine  again.  She  had  been  a  school-teacher,  after 
passing  the  necessary  examination  at  the  Geneseo 
Normal  School.  She  could  not  say  why  school- 
teaching  was  uncongenial  to  her,  except  that  the 
children  "made  her  nervous"  and  she  wanted  to  try 
factory  work.  Her  father  was  a  cheese  manu- 
facturer up  in  the  Genesee  Valley.  She  might  have 
lived  quietly  at  home,  but  she  disliked  to  be  a 
dependent.  She  was  of  the  mystic,  sentimental  type. 
She  had  a  broad  forehead,  straight  auburn  hair,  a 
clear-cut  mouth,  whose  sharp  curves  gave  it  sweet- 
ness. Though  her  large  frame  indicated  clearly  an 
Anglo-Saxon  lineage,  there  was  nothing  of  the  sport 
about  her.  She  had  never  learned  to  skate  or  swim, 
but  she  could  sit  and  watch  the  hills  all  day  long. 
Her  clothes  had  an  esthetic  touch.  Mingled  with 
her  nervous  determination  there  was  a  sentimental 
yearning.  She  was  aa  idealist,  impelled  by  some 
controlling  emotion  which  was  the  mainspring  of 
her  life. 

Little  by  little  we  became  friends.     Our  common 


PERRY,   A  NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN   79 

weariness  brought  us  often  together  after  supper  in 
a  listless,  confidential  mood  before  the  parlour  stove. 
We  let  the  conversation  drift  inevitably  toward  the 
strong  current  that  was  marking  her  with  a  touch 
of  melancholy,  like  all  those  of  her  type  whose 
emotional  natures  are  an  enchanted  mirror,  reflecting 
visions  that  have  no  place  in  reality.  We  talked 
about  blondes  and  brunettes,  tall  men  and  short 
men,  our  favourite  man's  name;  and  gradually  the 
impersonal  became  personal,  the  ideal  took  form. 
Her  voice,  like  a  broken  lute  that  might  have  given 
sweet  sounds,  related  the  story.  It  was  inevitable 
that  she  should  love  a  dreamer  like  herself.  Nature 
had  imbued  her  with  a  hopeless  yearning.  She 
slipped  a  gold  locket  from  a  chain  on  her  throat.  It 
framed  he'r  hero's  picture,  the  source  of  her  courage, 
the  embodiment  of  her  heroic  energy:  a  man  of 
thirty,  who  had  failed  at  everything ;  good-looking, 
refined,  a  personage  in  real  life  who  resembled  the 
inhabitants  of  her  enchanted  mirror.  In  the  story 
she  told  there  were  stars  and  twilight,  summer 
evenings,  walks,  talks,  hopes  and  vague  projects. 
Any  practical  questions  I  felt  ready  to  ask  would 
have  sounded  coarse.  The  little  school-teacher 
with  shattered  nerves  embodied  a  hope  that  was 
more  to  her  than  meat  and  drink  and  money.  She 
was  of  those  who  do  not  live  by  bread  alone. 

Among  the  working  population  of  Perry  there  are 
all  manner  of  American  characteristics   manifest. 


8o  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

In  a  country  where  conditions  change  with  such 
rapidity  that  each  generation  is  a  revelation  to  the 
one  which  preceded  it,  it  is  inevitable  that  the  family 
and  the  State  should  be  secondary  to  the  individual. 
We  live  with  our  own  generation,  with  our  contem- 
poraries. We  substitute  experience  for  tradition. 
Each  generation  lives  for  itself  during  its  prime.  As 
soon  as  its  powers  begin  to  decline  it  makes  way 
with  resignation  for  the  next:  "We  have  had  our 
day ;  now  you  can  have  yours."  Thus  in  the  impor- 
tant decisions  of  life,  the  choosing  of  a  career,  matri- 
mony or  the  like,  the  average  American  is  much 
more  influenced  by  his  contemporaries  than  by  his 
elders,  much  more  stimulated  or  determined  by  the 
friends  of  his  own  age  than  by  the  older  members  of 
his  family.  This  detaching  of  generations  through 
the  evolution  of  conditions  is  inevitable  in  a  new 
civilization;  it  is  part  of  the  country's  freedom.  It 
adds  fervour  and  zest  and  originality  to  the  effort 
of  each.  But  it  means  a  youth  without  the  peace  of 
protection ;  an  old  age  without  the  harvest  of  conso- 
lation. The  man  in  such  a  battle  as  life  becomes 
under  these  circumstances  is  better  equipped  than  the 
woman,  whose  nature  disarms  her  for  the  struggle. 
The  American  woman  is  restless,  dissatisfied.  Soci- 
ety, whether  among  the  highest  or  lowest  classes, 
has  driven  her  toward  a  destiny  that  is  not  normal. 
The  factories  are  full  of  old  maids  ;  the  colleges  are 
full  of  old  maids;  the  ballrooms  in  the  worldly 


PERRY,   A   NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN   81 

centres  are  full  of  old  maids.  For  natural  obliga- 
tions are  substituted  the  fictitious  duties  of  clubst 
meetings,  committees,  organizations,  professions,  a 
thousand  unwomanly  occupations. 

I  cannot  attempt  to  touch  here  upon  the  classes 
who  have  not  a  direct  bearing  on  our  subject,  but  the 
analogy  is  striking  between  them  and  the  factory 
elements  of  which  I  wish  to  speak.  I  cannot  dwell 
upon  details  that,  while  full  of  interest,  are  yet  some- 
what aside  from  the  present  point,  but  I  want  to 
state  a  fact,  the  origin  of  whose  ugly  consequences 
is  in  all  classes  and  therefore  concerns  every  living 
American  woman.  Among  the  American  born 
women  of  this  country  the  sterility  is  greater,  the 
fecundity  less  than  those  of  any  other  nation  in  the 
world,  unless  it  be  France,  whose  anxiety  regarding 
her  depopulation  we  would  share  in  full  measure 
were  it  not  for  the  foreign  immigration  to  the  United 
States,  which  counteracts  the  degeneracy  of  the 
American.*  The  original  causes  for  this  increasing 
sterility  are  moral  and  not  physical.  When  this  is 
known,  does  not  the  philosophy  of  the  American 
working  woman  become  a  subject  of  vital  inter- 
est ?  Among  the  enemies  to  fecundity  and  a  natu- 
ral destiny  there  are  two  which  act  as  potently  in 
the  lower  as  in  the  upper  classes:  the  triumph 
of  individualism,  the  love  of  luxury.  America 

*  George  Engelman,  M.  D.,  "The  Increasing  Sterility  of 
American  Women,"  from  the  Journal  of  the  American  Medical 
Association,  October  5,  1901. 


82  THE  WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

is  not  a  democracy,  the  unity  of  effort  between  the 
man  and  the  woman  does  not  exist.  Men  were  too 
long  in  a  majority.  Women  have  become  autocrats 
or  rivals.  A  phrase  which  I  heard  often  repeated 
at  the  factory  speaks  by  itself  for  a  condition: 
"She  must  be  married,  because  she  don't  work." 
And  another  phrase  pronounced  repeatedly  by  the 
younger  girls:  "I  don't  have  to  work;  my  father 
gives  me  all  the  money  I  need,  but  not  all  the  money 
I  want.  I  like  to  be  independent  and  spend  my 
money  as  I  please." 

What  are  the  conclusions  to  be  drawn?  The 
American-born  girl  is  an  egoist.  Her  whole 
effort  (and  she  makes  and  sustains  one  in  the 
life  of  mill  drudgery)  is  for  herself.  She  works 
for  luxury  until  the  day  when  a  proper  husband 
presents  himself.  Then  she  stops  working  and  lets 
him  toil  for  both,  with  the  hope  that  the  budget  shall 
not  be  diminished  by  increasing  family  demands. 

In  those  cases  where  the  woman  continues  to  work 
after  marriage,  she  chooses  invariably  a  kind  of 
occupation  which  is  inconsistent  with  child-bearing. 
She  returns  to  the  mill  with  her  husband.  There 
were  a  number  of  married  couples  at  the  knitting 
factory  at  Perry.  They  boarded,  like  the  rest  of  us. 
I  never  saw  a  baby  nor  heard  of  a  baby  while  I  was 
in  the  town. 

I  can  think  of  no  better  way  to  present  this  love  of 
luxury,  this  triumph  of  individualism,  this  passion 


PERRY,   A   NEW   YORK   MILL  TOWN   83 

for  independence  than  to  continue  my  account  of 
the  daily  life  at  Perry. 

On  Saturday  night  we  drew  our  pay  and  got  out 
at  half-past  four.  This  extra  hour  and  a  half  was 
not  given  to  us;  we  had  saved  it  up  by  beginning 
each  day  at  fifteen  minutes  before  seven.  In  reality 
we  worked  ten  and  a  quarter  hours  five  days  in  the 
week  in  order  to  work  eight  and  a  half  on  the  sixth. 

By  five  o'clock  on  Saturdays  the  village  street 
was  animated  with  shoppers — the  stores  were 
crowded.  At  supper  each  girl  had  a  collection  of 
purchases  to  show:  stockings,  lace,  fancy  buckles, 
velvet  ribbons,  elaborate  hairpins.  Many  of  them, 
when  their  board  was  paid,  had  less  than  a  dollar  left 
of  the  five  or  six  it  had  taken  them  a  week  to  earn. 

"I  am  not  working  to  save,"  was  the  claim 
of  one  girl  for  all.  "I'm  working  for  pleasure." 

This  same  girl  called  me  into  her  room  one 
evening  when  she  was  packing  to  move  to  another 
boarding-house  where  were  more  young  men  and 
better  food.  I  watched  her  as  she  put  her  things 
into  the  trunk.  She  had  a  quantity  of  dresses, 
underclothes  with  lace  and  tucks,  ribbons,  fancy  hair 
ornaments,  lace  boleros,  handkerchiefs.  The  bot- 
tom of  her  trunk  was  full  of  letters  from  her  beau. 
The  mail  was  always  the  source  of  great 'excitement 
for  her,  and  having  noticed  that  she  seemed  especially 
hilarious  over  a  letter  received  that  night,  I  made 
this  the  pretext  for  a  confidence. 


84 

"You  got  a  letter  to-night,  didn't  you?"  I  asked 
innocently.  "Was  it  the  one  you  wanted?" 

"My,  yes,"  she  answered,  tossing  up  a  heap  of 
missives  from  the  depths  of  her  trunk.  ' '  It  was  from 
the  same  one  that  wrote  me  these.  I've  been  going 
with  him  three  years.  I  met  him  up  in  the  grape 
country  where  I  went  to  pick  grapes.  They  give 
you  your  board  and  you  can  make  twenty-seven  or 
thirty  dollars  in  a  fall.  He  made  up  his  mind  as 
soon  as  he  saw  me  that  I  was  about  right.  Now  he 
wants  me  to  marry  him.  That's  what  his  letter  said 
to-night.  He  is  making  three  dollars  a  day  and  he 
owns  a  farm  and  a  horse  and  wagon.  He  bought 
his  sister  a  $300  piano  this  fall." 

"  Well,  of  course,"  I  said  eagerly,  "you  will  accept 
him?" 

She  looked  half  shy,  half  pleased,  half  sur- 
prised. 

"No,  my!  no,"  she  answered,  shaking  her  head. 
"  I  don't  want  to  be  married." 

"But  why  not?  Don't  you  think  you  are 
foolish?  It's  a  good  chance  and  you  have  already 
been  'going  with  him'  three  years." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,  but  I  ain't  ready  to  marry  him 
yet.  Twenty-five  is  time  enough.  I'm  only  twenty- 
three.  I  can  have  a  good  time  just  as  I  am.  He 
didn't  want  me  to  come  away  and  neither  did  my 
parents.  I  thought  it  would  'most  kill  my  father. 
He  looked  like  he'd  been  sick  the  day  I  left,  but  he 


PERRY,  A  NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN   85 

let  me  come  'cause  he  knew  I'd  never  be  satisfied 
until  I  got  my  independence." 

What  part  did  the  love  of  humanity  play  in  this 
young  egoist's  heart  ?  She  was  living,  as  she  had  so 
well  explained  it,  "not  to  save,  but  to  give  herself 
pleasure";  not  to  spare  others,  but  to  exercise  her 
will  in  spite  of  them.  Tenderness,  reverence, 
gratitude,  protection  are  the  feelings  which  one 
generation  awakens  for  another.  Among  the  thou- 
sand contemporaries  at  Perry,  from  the  sameness 
of  their  ambitions,  there  was  inevitable  rivalry  and 
selfishness.  The  closer  the  age  and  capacity  the 
keener  the  struggle. 

There  are  seven  churches  in  Perry  of  seven 
different  denominations.  In  this  small  town  of 
3,000  inhabitants  there  are  seven  different  forms  of 
worship.  The  church  plays  an  important  part  in 
the  social  life  of  the  mill  hands.  There  are 
gatherings  of  all  sorts  from  one  Sunday  to 
another,  and  on  Sunday  there  are  almost  continuous 
services.  There  are  frequent  conversions.  When 
the  Presbyterian  form  fails  they  "try"  the 
Baptist.  There  is  no  moral  instruction;  it  is  all 
purely  religious;  and  they  join  one  church  or 
another  more  as  they  would  a  social  club  than  an 
ordained  religious  organization. 

Friday  was  "social"  night  at  the  church.  Some- 
times there  was  a  "poverty"  social,  when  every  one 
put  on  shabby  clothes,  and  any  one  who  wore  a 


86  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

correct  garment  of  any  sort  was  fined  for  the  benefit 
of  the  church.  Pound  socials  were  another  variety 
of  diversion,  where  all  the  attendants  were  weighed 
on  arriving  and  charged  a  cent  admission  for  every 
pound  of  avoirdupois. 

The  most  popular  socials,  however,  were  box 
socials,  and  it  was  to  one  of  these  I  decided  to  go 
with  two  girls  boarding  in  the  house.  Each  of  us 
packed  a  box  with  lunch  as  good  as  we  could  afford 
— eggs,  sandwiches,  cakes,  pickles,  oranges — and 
arrived  with  these,  we  proceeded  to  the  vestry-room, 
where  we  found  an  improvised  auctioneer's  table 
and  a  pile  of  boxes  like  our  own,  which  were  marked 
and  presently  put  up  for  sale.  The  youths  of  the 
party  bid  cautiously  or  recklessly,  according  as  their 
inward  conviction  told  them  that  the  box  was  packed 
by  friend  or  foe. 

My  box,  which,  like  the  rest,  had  supper  for 
two,  was  bid  in  by  a  tall,  nice-looking  mill  hand, 
and  we  installed  ourselves  in  a  corner  to  eat  and 
talk.  He  was  full  of  reminiscence  and  had  had 
a  checkered  career.  His  first  experience  had  been, 
at  night  work  in  a  paper  mill.  He  worked  eleven 
hours  a  night  one  week,  thirteen  hours  a  night  the 
next  week,  in  and  out  of  doors,  drenched  to  the  skin. 
He  had  lost  twenty-five  pounds  in  less  than  a  year, 
and  his  face  was  a  mere  mask  drawn  over  the 
irregular  bones  of  the  skull. 

"  I  always  like  whatever  I  am  doing,"  he  responded 


PERRY,   A   NEW   YORK   MILL  TOWN    87 

at  my  protestation  of  sympathy.  "  I  think  that's 
the  only  way  to  be.  I  never  had  much  appetite  at 
night.  They  packed  me  an  elegant  pail,  but  some- 
how all  cold  food  didn't  relish  much.  I  never  did 
like  a  pail.  .  .  .  How  would  you  like  to  take 
a  dead  man's  place?"  he  asked,  looking  at  me 
grimly. 

I  begged  him  to  explain. 

"  One  of  my  best  friends,"  he  began,  "was  working 
alongside  of  me,  and  I  guess  he  got  dizzy  or  some- 
thing, for  he  leaned  up  against  the  big  belt  that  ran 
all  the  machinery  and  he  was  lifted  right  up  in  the 
air  and  tore  to  pieces  before  he  ever  knew  what  struck 
him.  The  boss  came  in  and  seen  it,  and  the  second 
question  he  asked,  he  says,  'Say,  is  the  machinery 
running  all  right?'  It  wasn't  ten  minutes  before 
there  was  another  man  in  there  doing  the  dead  man's 
work." 

I  began  to  undo  the  lunch-box,  feeling  very  little 
inclined  to  eat.  We  divided  the  contents,  and  my 
friend,  seeing  perhaps  that  I  was  depressed,  told  me 
about  the  "  shows"  he  had  been  to  in  his  wanderings. 

"  Now,  I  don't  care  as  much  for  comedy  as  some 
folks,"  he  explained.  "  I  like  '  Puddin'  Head  Wilson' 
first  rate,  but  the  finest  thing  I  ever  seen  was  two  of 
Shakespeare's: '  The  Merchant  of  Venice'  and  '  Julius 
Caesar.'  If  you  ever  get  a  chance  I  advise  you  to  go 
and  hear  them;  they're  great." 

I  responded  cordially,  and  when  we  had  exhausted 


88  THE  WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

Shakespeare  I  asked  him  how  he  liked  Perry 
people. 

"  Oh,  first  rate,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  here  only  a 
month,  but  I  think  there's  too  much  formality.  It 
seems  to  me  that  when  you  work  alongside  of  a  girl 
day  after  day  you  might  speak  to  her  without  an 
introduction,  but  they  won't  let  you  here.  I  never 
seen  such  a  formal  place." 

I  said  very  little.  The  boy  talked  on  of  his  life 
and  experiences.  His  English  was  good  except  for 
certain  grammatical  errors.  His  words  were  well 
chosen.  There  was  between  him  and  the  fortunate 
boys  of  a  superior  class  only  a  few  years  of 
training. 

The  box  social  was  the  beginning  of  a  round  of 
gaieties.  The  following  night  I  went  with  my  box- 
social  friend  to  a  ball.  Neither  of  us  danced,  but  we 
arrived  early  and  took  good  places  for  looking  on. 
The  barren  hall  was  dimly  lighted.  In  the  corner 
there  was  a  stove ;  at  one  end  a  stage.  An  old  man 
with  a  chin  beard  was  scattering  sand  over  the  floor 
with  a  springtime  gesture  of  seed  sowing.  He  had 
his  hat  on  and  his  coat  collar  turned  up,  as  though  to 
indicate  that  the  party  had  not  begun.  By  and  by 
the  stage  curtain  rolled  up  and  the  musicians  came 
out  and  unpacked  a  violin,  a  trombone,  a  flute  and 
a  drum.  They  sat  down  in  the  Medieval  street 
painted  on  the  scenery  back  of  them,  crossed  their 
legs  and  asked  for  sol  la  from  an  esthetic  young 


PERRY,   A  NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN  89 

lady  pianist,  with  whom  they  seemed  on  very 
familiar  terms.  The  old  man  with  the  chin  beard 
made  an  official  entree  from  the  wing,  picked  up 
the  drum  and  became  a  part  of  the  orchestra.  The 
subscribers  had  begun  to  arrive,  and  when  the  first 
two-step  struck  up  there  were  eight  or  ten  couples 
on  the  floor.  They  held  on  to  each  other  closely, 
with  no  outstretched  arms  as  is  the  usual  form,  and 
they  revolved ,  very  slowly  around  and  around  the 
room.  The  young  men  had  smooth  faces,  patent 
leather  boots,  very  smart  cravats  and  a  sheepish, 
self-conscious  look.  The  girls  had  elaborate  con- 
structions in  frizzed  hair,  with  bows  and  tulle ;  black 
trailing  skirts  with  coloured  ruffled  under-petticoats, 
light-coloured  blouses  and  fancy  belts.  They 
seemed  to  be  having  a  very  good  time. 

On  the  way  home  we  passed  a  brightly  lighted 
grocery  shop.  My  friend  looked  in  with  interest. 
"  Goodness,"  he  said,  "  but  those  Saratoga  chips  look 
good.  Now,  what  would  you  order,"  he  went  on, 
"if  you  could  have  anything  you  liked?"  We 
began  to  compose  a  m6nu  with  oysters  and  chicken 
and  all  the  things  we  never  saw,  but  it  was  not  long 
before  my  friend  cried  ''Mercy !  Oh,  stop;  I  can't 
stand  it.  It  makes  me  too  hungry." 

The  moon  had  gone  under  a  cloud.  The  wooden 
sidewalks  were  rough  and  irregular,  and  as  we 
walked  along  toward  home  I  tripped  once  or  twice. 
Presently  I  felt  a  strong  arm  put  through  mine, 


90  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

with  this  assurance:  "Now  if  you  fall  we'll  both 
fall  together." 

After  four  or  five  days'  experience  with  a  machine 
I  began  to  work  with  more  ease  and  with  less  pain 
between  my  shoulders.  The  girls  were  kind  and 
sympathetic,  stopping  to  help  and  encourage  the 
"new  girl."  One  of  the  shirt  finishers,  who  had 
not  been  long  in  the  mill  herself,  came  across  from 
her  table  one  day  when  I  was  hard  at  work  with  a 
pain  like  a  sword  stab  in  my  back. 

"I  know  how  you  ache,"  she  said.  "It  just 
makes  me  feel  like  crying  when  I  see  how  you  keep 
at  it  and  I  can  guess  how  tired  you  are." 

Nothing  was  so  fatiguing  as  the  noise.  In  certain 
places  near  the  eyelet  and  buttonhole  machines  it 
was  impossible  to  make  one's  neighbour  hear  without 
shouting.  My  teacher,  whose  nerves,  I  took  it,  were 
less  sensitive  than  mine,  expressed  her  sensations  in 
this  way : 

"  It's  just  terrible  sitting  here  all  day  alone,  worry- 
ing and  thinking  all  by  yourself  and  hustling  from 
morning  until  night.  Lots  of  the  girls  have  nervous 
prostration.  My  sister  had  it  and  I  guess  I'm 
getting  it.  I  hear  the  noise  all  night.  Quite  a  few 
have  consumption,  too,  from  the  dust  and  the  lint." 

The  butcher's  widow,  the  school-teacher  and  I 
started  in  at  about  the  same  time.  At  the  end  of 
two  weeks  the  butcher's  widow  had  long  been  gone. 
The  school-teacher  had  averaged  seventy-nine  cents 


PERRY,   A   NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN   91 

a  day  and  I  had  averaged  eighty-nine.  My  best 
day  I  finished  sixteen  dozen  shirts  and  netted  $1.11. 
My  board  and  washing  cost  me  three  dollars,  so  that 
from  the  first  I  had  a  living  insured. 

There  was  one  negress  in  the  factory.  She 
worked  in  a  corner  quite  by  herself  and  attended 
to  menial  jobs,  such  as  sweeping  and  picking  up 
scraps.  A  great  many  of  the  girls  and  boys  took 
correspondence  courses  in  stenography,  drawing, 
bookkeeping,  illustrating,  etc.,  etc.  The  purely 
mechanical  work  of  the  mill  does  not  satisfy  them. 
They  are  restless  and  ambitious,  exactly  the  material 
with  which  to  form  schools  of  industrial  art,  the  class 
of  hand-workers  of  whom  I  have  already  spoken. 

One  of  the  girls  who  worked  beside  us  as  usual  in 
the  morning,  left  a  note  on  her  machine  at  noon  one 
day  to  say  that  she  would  never  be  back.  She  was 
going  up  to  the  lake  to  drown  herself,  and  we  needn't 
look  for  her.  Some  one  was  sent  in  search.  She 
was  found  sitting  at  the  lake's  edge,  weeping. 
She  did  not  speak.  We  all  talked  about  it  in  our 
leisure  moments,  but  the  work  was  not  interrupted. 
There  were  various  explanations :  she  was  out  of  her 
mind;  she  was  discouraged  with  her  work;  she  was 
nervous.  No  one  suggested  that  an  unfortunate 
love  affair  be  the  cause  of  her  desperate  act. 
There  was  not  a  word  breathed  against  her 
reputation.  I  would  have  felt  impure  in  proposing 
what  to  me  seemed  most  probable. 


92  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

The  mill  owners  exert,  as  far  as  possible,  an 
influence  over  the  moral  tone  of  their  employees, 
assuming  the  right  to. judge  their  conduct  both  in 
and  out  of  the  factory  and  to  treat  them  as  they 
see  fit.  The  average  girls  are  self-respecting.  They 
trifle  with  love.  The  attraction  they  wish  to  exert 
is  ever  present  in  their  minds  and  in  their  conversa- 
tion. The  sacrifices  they  make  for  clothes  are  the 
first  in  importance.  They  have  superstitions  of  all 
kinds :  to  sneeze  on  Saturday  means  the  arrival  of  a 
beau  on  Sunday ;  a  big  or  little  tea  leaf  means  a  tall 
or  a  short  caller,  and  so  on.  There  is  a  book  of 
dreams  kept  on  one  table  in  the  mill,  and  the  girls 
consult  it  to  find  the  interpretation  of  their  nocturnal 
reveries.  They  are  fanciful,  sentimental,  cold, 
passionless.  The  accepted  honesty  of  married  life 
makes  them  slow  to  discard  the  liberty  they  love,  to 
dismiss  the  suitors  who  would  attend  their  wedding 
as  one  would  a  funeral. 

There  is,  of  course,  another  category  of  girl,  who 
goes  brutally  into  passionate  pleasures,  follows  the 
shows,  drinks  and  knocks  about  town  with  the 
boys.  She  is  known  as  a  "bum,"  has  sacrificed 
name  and  reputation  and  cannot  remain  in  the  mill. 

We  discussed  one  night  the  suitable  age  for  a  girl 
to  become  mistress  of  herself.  The  boy  of  the  house- 
hold maintained  that  at  eighteen  a  girl  could  marry, 
but  that  she  must  be  twenty-one  before  she  could 
have  her  own  way.  All  the  girls  insisted  that  they 


PERRY,  A  NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN  93 

could  and  did  boss  themselves  and  had  even  before 
they  were  eighteen. 

Two  chums  who  boarded  in  my  house  gave  a 
charming  illustration  of  the  carelessness  and  the 
extravagance,  the  independence  and  love  of  it  which 
characterizes  feminine  America.  One  of  these  was 
a  deracinee,  a  child  with  a  foreign  touch  in  her 
twang;  a  legend  of  other  climes  in  the  dexterity 
of  her  deft  fingers;  some  memory  of  an  exile 
from  France  in  her  name:  Lorraine.  Her  friend 
was  a  mondaine.  She  had  the  social  gift,  a  subtle 
understanding  of  things  worldly,  the  glissey  mortel 
riappuyez  jamais  attitude  toward  life.  By  a  touch 
of  flippancy,  an  adroit  turn  of  mind,  she  kept  the 
knowing  mastery  over  people  which  has  mystified 
and  delighted  in  all  great  hostesses  since  the  days 
of  Esther. 

When  the  other  girls  waited  feverishly  for  love 
letters,  she  was  opening  a  pile  of  invitations  to  socials 
and  theatre  parties.  Discreet  and  condescending, 
she  received  more  than  she  gave. 

As  soon  as  the  posters  were  out  for  a  Tuesday 
performance  of  "  Faust,"  preparations  began  in 
the  household  to,  attend.  Saturday  shopping  and 
supper  were  hurried  through  and  by  six  o'clock 
Lorraine  was  at  the  sewing  machine  tucking  chiffon 
for  hats  and  bodices.  After  ten  hours'  work  in  the 
mill,  she  began  again,  eager  to  use  the  last  of  the 
spring  twilight,  prolonged  by  a  quarter  moon. 


94  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

There  was  a  sudden,  belated  gust  of  snow;  in  the 
blue  mist '  each  white  frame  house  glowed  with  a 
warm,  pink  light  from  its  parlour  stove.  Lorraine's 
fingers  flew.  A  hat  took  form  and  grew  from  a 
heap  of  stuff  into  a  Parisian  creation;  a  bolero  was 
cut  and  tucked  and  fitted;  a  skirt  was  ripped  and 
stitched  and  pressed;  a  shirt-waist  was  started  and 
finished.  For  two  nights  the  girls  worked  until 
twelve  o'clock  so  that  when  the  "show"  came  they 
might  have  something  new  to  wear  that  nobody  had 
seen.  This  must  have  been  the  unanimous  intention 
of  the  Perry  populace,  for  the  peanut  gallery  was  a 
bower  of  fashion.  Styles,  which  I  had  thought 
were  new  in  Paris,  were  familiarly  worn  in  Perry  by 
the  mill  hands.  White  kid  gloves  were  en  regie.  The 
play  was  "  Faust."  All  allusions  to  the  triumph  of 
religion  over  the  devil;  all  insinuations  on  the  part 
of  Mephistopheles  in  regard  to  the  enviable  escape 
of  Martha's  husband  and  of  husbands  in  general, 
from  prating  women  in  general;  all  invocations  of 
virtue  and  moral  triumph,  were  greeted  with  bursts 
of  applause.  Between  the  acts  there  was  music,  and 
the  ushers  distributed  showers  of  printed  advertise- 
ments, which  the  audience  fell  at  once  to  reading 
as  though  they  had  nothing  to  talk  about. 

I  heard  only  one  hearty  comment  about  the  play  : 
"That  devil,"  said  Lorraine,  as  we  walked  home 
together,  "was  a  corker  !  " 

I  have  left  until  the  last  the  two  friends  who  held 


PERRY,   A   NEW  YORK   MILL  TOWN   95 

a  place  apart  in  the  household:  the  farmer  and  his 
wife,  the  old  people  of  another  generation  with 
whom  we  boarded.  They  had  begun  life  together 
forty  years  ago.  They  lived  on  neighbouring  farms. 
There  was  dissension  between  the  families  such  as 
we  read  of  in  "  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,"  "  Romeo  and 
Juliet."  The  young  people  contrived  a  means  of 
corresponding.  An  old  coat  that  hung  in  the  barn, 
where  nobody  saw  it,  served  as  post-office.  Truman 
pleaded  his  cause  ardently  and  won  his  Louisa.  They 
fixed  a  day  for  the  elopement.  A  fierce  snow- 
storm piled  high  its  drifts  of  white,  but  all  the  after- 
noon long  the  little  bride  played  about,  burrowing  a 
path  from  the  garden  to  her  bedroom  window,  and 
when  night  came  and  brought  her  mounted  hero 
with  it,  she  climbed  up  on  to  the  saddle  by  his  side 
and  rode  away  to  happiness,  leaving  ill  nature  and 
quarrels  far  behind.  Side  by  side,  as  on  the  night 
of  their  wedding  ride,  they  had  traversed  forty  years 
together.  Ill  health  had  broken  up  their  farm 
home.  When  Truman  could  no  longer  work  they 
came  in  to  Perry  to  take  boarders,  having  no  children. 
The  old  man  never  spoke.  He  did  chores  about  the 
house,  made  the  fire  mornings,  attended  to  the 
parlour  stove ;  he  went  about  his  work  and  no  one 
ever  addressed  a  word  to  him ;  he  seemed  to  have 
no  more  live  contact  with  the  youth  about  him 
than  driftwood  has  with  the  tree's  new  shoots. 
He  had  lived  his  life  on  a  farm ;  he  was  a  land  captain ; 


96  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

he  knew  the  earth's  secrets  as  a  ship's  captain  knows 
the  sea's.  He  paced  the  mild  wooden  pavements  of 
Perry,  booted  and  capped  for  storm  and  wind,  deep 
snow  and  all  the  inimical  elements  a  pioneer  might 
meet  with.  His  new  false  teeth  seemed  to  shine 
from  his  shaggy  gray  beard  as  a  symbol  of  this  new 
town  experience  in  a  rough  natural  existence,  out 
of  keeping,  ill  assorted.  Tempted  to  know  what 
his  silence  hid,  I  spent  an  hour  with  him  by  the 
kitchen  stove  one  Sunday  afternoon.  His  memory 
went  easily  back  to  the  days  when  there  were  no 
railroads,  no  telegraphs,  no  mills.  He  was  of  a 
speculative  turn  of  mind : 

"I  don't  see,"  he  said,  "what  makes  men  so  crazy 
after  gold.  They're  getting  worse  all  the  time.  Gold 
ain't  got  no  real  value.  You  take  all  the  gold  out  of 
the  world  and  it  wouldn't  make  no  difference  what- 
ever. You  can't  even  make  a  tool  to  get  a  living  with, 
out  of  gold;  but  just  do  away  with  the  iron,  and 
where  would  you  be ? "  And  again,  he  volunteered: 

"I  think  Mr.  Carnegie  would  have  done  a  deal 
nobler  if  he  had  paid  his  men  a  little  more  straight 
along.  He  wouldn't  have  had  such  a  name  for 
himself.  But  don't  you  believe  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have  paid  those  men  more  for  the  work 
they  were  doing  day  by  day  than  it  is  now  to  give 
pensions  to  their  families?  I  know  what  I  think 
about  the  matter." 

I  asked  him  how  he  liked  city  life. 


SUNDAY    EVENING    AT    SILVER    LAKE 

The  mil)  girls'  excursion  resort      A  special  train  and  'busses  run  on  Sundays, 
and  "everybody"  goes 


PERRY,  A  NEW  YORK  MILL  TOWN  97 

"Give  me  a  farm  every  time,"  was  his  answer. 
"Once  you've  seen  a  town  you  know  it  all.  It's  the 
same  over  and  over  again.  But  the  country's 
changing  every  day  in  the  year.  It's  a  terrible  thing, 
being  sick,"  he  went  on.  "It  seems  sometimes  as 
though  the  pain  would  tear  me  to  pieces  when  I 
walk  across  the  floor.  I  wasn't  no  good  on  the 
farm  any  more,  so  my  wife  took  a  notion  we  better 
come  in  town  and  take  boarders." 

Thus  it  was  with  this  happily  balanced  couple; 
as  his  side  grew  heavier  she  took  on  more  ballast  and 
swung  even  with  him.  She  had  the  quick  adapta- 
bility common  to  American  women.  During  the 
years  of  farm  life  religious  meetings  and  a  few 
neighbours  had  kept  her  in  touch  with  the  outside 
world.  .The  church  and  the  kitchen  were  what  she 
had  on  the  farm;  the  church  and  the  kitchen  were 
what  she  had  in  town;  family  life  supplemented  by 
boarders,  a  social  existence  kept  alive  by  a  few 
faithful  neighbours.  She  had  retained  her  activity 
and  sympathy  because  she  was  intelligent,  because 
she  lived  with  the  young.  The  man  could  not  make 
himself  one  of  another  generation,  so  he  lived  alone. 
He  had  lost  his  companions,  the  "cow  kind  and  the 
sheep  kind" ;  he  had  lost  control  over  the  earth  that 
belonged  to  him;  he  was  disused;  he  suffered;  he 
pined.  But  as  they  sat  together  side  by  side  at 
table,  his  look  toward  her  was  one  of  trust  and 
comfort.  His  glance  traveled  back  over  a  long 


98  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

vista  of  years  seen  to  them  as  their  eyes  met,  invisible 
to  those  about — years  that  had  glorified  confidence 
in  this  life  as  it  passed  and  transfigured  it  into  the 
promise  of  another  life  to  come. 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO 


CHAPTER  IV 
MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO 

ON  arriving  in  Chicago  I  addressed  myself  to  the 
ladies  of  Hull  House,  asking  for  a  tenement  family 
who  would  take  a  factory  girl  to  board.  I  intended 
starting  out  without  money  to  see  at  least  how  far 
I  could  go  before  putting  my  hand  into  the  depths 
where  an  emergency  fund  was  pinned  in  a  black 
silk  bag. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  May.  A  hot  wind  blew 
eddies  of  dust  up  and  down  the  electric  car  tracks ; 
the  streets  were  alive  with  children;  a  group 
swarmed  in  front  of  each  doorstep,  too  large  to  fit 
into  the  house  behind  it.  Down  the  long,  regular 
avenues  that  stretched  right  and  left  there  was  a 
broken  line  of  tenements  topped  by  telegraph  wires 
and  bathed  in  a  soft  cloud  of  black  soot  falling  from 
a  chimney  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  sidewalks 
were  a  patchwork  of  dirt,  broken  paving-stones  and 
wooden  boards.  The  sunshine  was  hot  and  gloomy. 
There  were  no  names  on  the  corner  lamps  and  the 
house  numbers  were  dull  and  needed  repainting. 
It  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon :  I  had  but  an 
hour  or  two  before  dark  to  find  a  lodging.  The 

101 


102  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

miserable,  overcrowded  tenement  houses  repelled 
me,  yet  I  dreaded  that  there  should  not  be  room 
among  them  for  one  more  bread-winner  to  lodge.  I 
hailed  a  cluster  of  children  in  the  gutter: 

"Say,"  I  said,  "do  you  know  where  Mrs.  Hicks 
lives  to  ?" 

They  crowded  around,  eager.  The  tallest  boy, 
with  curly  red  hair  and  freckles,  pointed  out  Mrs. 
Hicks'  residence,  the  upper  windows  of  a  brick  flat 
that  faced  the  world  like  a  prison  wall.  After  I  had 
rung  and  waited  for  the  responding  click  from 
above,  ^  a  cross-eyed  Italian  woman  with  a  baby 
in  her  arms  motioned  to  me  from  the  step  where 
she  was  sitting  that  I  must  go  down  a  side  alley  to 
find  Mrs.  Hicks.  Out  of  a  promiscuous  heap  of 
filth,  a  broken-down  staircase  led  upward  to  a  row  of 
green  blinds  and  a  screen  door.  Somebody's  house- 
keeping was  scattered  around  in  torn  bits  of  linen 
and  tomato  cans. 

The  screen  door  opened  to  my  knock  and  the 
.  Hicks  family  gushed  at  me — ever  so  many  children 
of  all  ages  and  an  immense  mother  in  an  under- 
waist  and  petticoat.  The  interior  was  neat;  the 
wooden  floors  were  scrubbed  spotless.  I  congratu- 
lated myself.  Mrs.  Hicks  clucked,  to  the  family 
group,  smiled  at  me,  and  said : 

"I  never  took  a  boarder  in  my  life.  I  ain't  got 
room  enough  for  my  own  young  ones,  let  alone 
strangers," 


•  THE  BREATH  OF  THE 
BLACK,  SWEET  NIGHT 
REACHED  THEM, FETID, 

HEAVY  WITH  THE  ODOUR  OF  DEATH  AS 
IT    BLEW    ACROSS    THE     STOCKYARDS  " 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     103 

There  were  two  more  names  on  my  list.  I  pro- 
ceded  to  the  nearest  and  found  an  Irish  lady  living 
in  basement  rooms  ornamented  with  green  crochet 
work,  crayon  portraits,  red  plaid  table-cloths  and 
chromo  picture  cards. 

She  had  rheumatism  in  her  "limbs"  and  moved 
with  difficulty.  She  was  glad  to  talk  the  matter 
over,  though  she  had  from  the  first  no  intention  of 
taking  me.  From  my  then  point  of  view  nothing 
seemed  so  desirable  as  a  cot  in  Mrs.  Flannagan's 
front  parlour.  I  even  offered  in  my  eagerness  to 
sleep  on  the  horsehair  sofa.  Womanlike,  she  gave 
twenty  little  reasons  for  not  taking  me  before  she 
gave  the  one  big  reason,  which  was  this : 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  wouldn't  mind 
having  you  myself,  but  I've  "got  three  sons,  and 
you  know  boys  is  queer." 

It  was  late,  the  sun  had  set  and  only  the  twilight 
remained  for  my  search  before  night  would  be  upon 
me  and  I  would  be  driven  to  some  charity  refuge. 

I  had  one  more  name,  and  climbed  to  find  its 
owner  in  a  tenement  flat.  She  was  a  German  woman 
with  a  clubfoot.  Two  half -naked  children  incrusted 
with  dirt  were  playing  on  the  floor.  They  waddled 
toward  me  as  I  asked  what  my  chances  were  for 
finding  a  room  and  board.  The  mother  struck  first 
one,  then  the  other,  of  her  offspring,  and  they  fell 
into  two  little  heaps,  both  wailing.  From  a  hole 
back  of  the  kitchen  came  the  sympathetic  response 


io4  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

of  a  half-starved  shaggy  dog.  He  howled  and  the 
babes  wailed  while  we  visited  the  dusky  apartment. 
There  was  one  room  rented  to  a  day  lodger  who 
worked  nights,  and  one  room  without  a  window 
where  the  German  family  slept.  She  proposed  that 
I  share  the  bed  with  her  that  night  until  she  could 
get  an  extra  cot.  Her  husband  and  the  children 
could  sleep  on  the  parlour  lounge.  She  was  hideous 
and  dirty.  Her  loose  lips  and  half-toothless  mouth 
were  the  slipshod  note  of  an  entire  existence.  There 
was  a  very  dressy  bonnet  with  feathers  hanging  on  a 
peg  in  the  bedroom,  and  two  gala  costumes  belonging 
to  the  tearful  twins. 

"I'll  come  back  in  an 'hour,  thank  you,"  I  said. 
"Don't  expect  me  if  I  am  not  here  in  an  hour,"  and 
I  fled  down  the  stairs.  Before  the  hour  was  up 
I  had  found,  through  the  guidance  of  the  Irish  lady 
with  rheumatism,  a  clean  room  in  one  street  and 
board  in  another.  This  was  inconvenient,  but  safe 
and  comparatively  healthy. 

My  meals  were  thirty-five  cents  a  day,  payable  at 
the  end  of  the  week;  my  room  was  $1.25  a  week, 
total  $3.70  a  week. 

My  first  introduction  to  Chicago  tenement  life 
was  supper  at  Mrs.  Wood's. 

I  could  hear  the  meal  sputtering  on  the  kitchen 
stove  as  I  opened  the  Wood  front  door. 

Mrs.  Wood,  combining  duties  as  cook  and  hostess, 
called  to  me  to  make  myself  at  home  in  the  front 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     105 

parlour.  I  seated  myself  on  the  sofa,  which  exuded 
the  familiar  acrid  odour  of  the  poor.  Opposite  me 
there  was  a  door  half  open  leading  into  a  room 
where  a  lamp  was  lighted.  I  could  see  a  young 
girl  and  a  man  talking  together.  He  was  sitting 
and  had  his  hat  on.  She  had  a  halo  of  blond  hair, 
through  which  the  lamplight  was  shining,  and  she 
stood  near  the  man,  who  seemed  to  be  teasing  her. 
Their  conversation  was  low,  but  there  was  a  familiar 
cry  now  and  then,  half  vulgar,  half  affectionate. 

When  we  had  taken  our  places  at  the  table,  Mrs. 
Wood  presented  us. 

"This  is  "Miss  Ida,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  blonde 
girl;  "she's  been  boarding  over  a  year  with  me,  and 
this,"  turning  to  the  young  man  who  sat  near  by 
with  one  arm  hanging  listlessly  over  the  back  of  a 
chair,  "this  is  Miss  Ida's  intended." 

The  other  members  of  the  household  were  a  fox 
terrier,  a  canary  and  "Wood" — Wood  was  a  man 
over  sixty.  He  and  Mrs.  Wood  had  the  same 
devoted  understanding  that  I  have  observed  so  often 
among  the  poor  couples  of  the  older  generation. 
This  good  little  woman  occupied  herself  with  the 
things  that  no  longer  satisfy.  She  took  tender  care 
of  her  husband,  following  him  to  the  door  with 
one  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  calling  after  him  as 
he  went  on  his  way:  "  Good-by;  take  care  of  your- 
self." She  had  a  few  pets,  her  children  were  mar- 
ried and  gone,  she  had  a  miniature  patch  of  garden, 


io6 


a  trust  in  the  church  guild — which  took  some  time 
and  attention  for  charitable  works,  and  she  did  her 
own  cooking  and  housework.  "And,"  she  explained 
to  me  in  the  course  of  our  conversation  at  supper, 
"I  never  felt  the  need  of  joining  these  University 
Settlement  Clubs  to  get  into  society."  Wood  and 
his  wife  were  a  good  sort.  Miss  Ida  was  kind  in 
her  inquiries  about  my  plans. 

"Have  you  ever  operated  a  power  machine?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  responded — with  what  pride  she  little 
dreamed.  "I've  run  an  electric  Singer." 

"I  guess  I  can  get  you  a  job,  then,  all  right,  at 
my  place.  It's  piece-work;  you  get  off  at  five,  but 
you  can  make  good  money." 

I  thanked  her,  not  adding  that  my  Chicago  career 
was  to  be  a  checkered  one,  and  that  I  was  determined 
to  see  how  many  things  I  could  do  that  I  had  never 
done  before. 

But  social  life  was  beginning  to  wear  on  Miss  Ida'c 
intended.  He  took  up  his  hat  and  swung  along 
toward  the  door.  •  I  was  struggling  to  extract  with 
my  fork  the  bones  of  a  hard,  fried  fish.  Mrs.  Wood 
encouraged  me  in  a  motherly  tone : 

"Oh,  my,  don't  be  so  formal;  take  your  knife." 

"Say,"  called  a  voice  from  the  door,  "say,  come  on, 
Ida,  I'm  waiting  for  you."  And  the  blonde  fiancee 
hurried  away  with  an  embarrassed  laugh  to  join  her 
lover.  She  was  refined  and  delicate,  her  ears  were 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     107 

small,  her  hands  white  and  slender,  she  spoke 
correctly  with  a  nasal  voice,  and  her  teeth  (as  is  not 
often  the  case  among  this  class,  whose  lownesses  seem 
suddenly  revealed  when  they  open  their  mouths) 
were  sound  and  clean. 

The  man's  smooth  face  was  all  commonness  and 
vulgarity. 

"He's  had  appendicitis,"  Mrs.  Wood  explained 
when  we  were  alone.  "He's  been  out  of  work  a 
long  time.  As  soon  as  he  goes  to  his  job  his  side 
bursts  out  again  where  they  operated  on  him.  He 
ain't  a  bit  strong." 

"When  are  they  going  to  be  married?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  they  don't  think  of  that  yet ;  they're 
in  no  hurry." 

"Will  Miss  Ida  work  after  she's  married  ?" 

"No,  indeed." 

Did  they  not  have  their  share  of  ideal  then,  these 
two  young  labourers  who  could  wait  indefinitely, 
Sed  by  hope,  in  their  sordid,  miserable  surroundings  ? 

I  returned  to  my  tenement  room ;  its  one  window 
opened  over  a  narrow  alley  flanked  on  its  opposite 
side  by  a  second  tenement,  through  whose  shutters 
I  could  look  and  see  repeated  layers  of  squalid 
lodgings.  The  thermometer  had  climbed  up  into 
the  eighties.  The  wail  of  a  newly  born  baby  came 
from  the  room  under  mine.  The  heat  was  stifling. 
Outdoors  in  the  false,  flickering  day  of  the  arc  lights 
the  crowd  swarmed,  on  the  curb,  on  the  sidewalk,  on 


io8  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

the  house  steps.  The  breath  of  the  black,  sweet 
night  reached  them,  fetid,  heavy  with  the  odour  of 
death  as  it  blew  across  the  stockyards.  Shouts, 
calls,  cries,  moans,  the  sounds  of  old  age  and  of 
infancy,  of  despair  and  of  joy,  mingled  and  became 
the  anonymous  murmur  of  a  hot,  human  multitude. 
The  following  morning  I  put  ten  cents  in  my  pccket 
and  started  out  to  get  a  job  before  this  sum  should 
be  used  up.  How  huge  the  city  seemed  when  I 
thought  of  the  small  space  I  could  cover  on  foot, 
looking  for  work !  I  walked  toward  the  river,  as  the 
commercial  activity  expressed  itself  in  that  direction 
by  fifteen-  and  twenty-story  buildings  and  streams 
of  velvet  smoke.  Blocks  and  blocks  of  tenements, 
with  the  same  dirty  people  wallowing  around  them, 
answered  my  searching  eyes  in  blank  response. 
There  was  an  occasional  dingy  sign  offering  board 
and  lodging.  After  I  had  made  several  futile 
inquiries  at  imposing  offices  on  the  river  front  I  felt 
that  it  was  a  hopeless  quest.  I  should  never  get 
work  unknown,  unskilled,  already  tired  and  dis- 
couraged. My  collar  was  wilted  in  the  fierce  heat ; 
my  shabby  felt  sailor  hat  was  no  protection  against 
the  sun's  rays;  my  hands  were  gloveless;  and  as  I 
passed  the  plate  glass  windows  I  could  see  the 
despondent  droop  of  my  skirt,  -the  stray  locks  of 
hair  that  blew  about  free  of  comb  or  veil.  A  sign 
out:  "Manglers  wanted  !  "  attracted  my  attention  in 
the  window  of  a  large  steam  laundry.  I  was  not  a 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     109 

"mangier,"  but  I  went  in  and  asked  to  see  the  boss. 
"Ever  done  any  mangling?"  was  his  first  question. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "but  I  am  sure  I  could  learn." 
I  put  so  much  ardour  into  my  response  that  the 
boss  at  once  took  an  interest. 

"We  might  give  you  a  place  as  shaker;  you  could 
start  in  and  work  up." 

"What  do  you  pay?' 

"Four  dollars  a  week  until  you  learn.  Then 
you  would  work  up  to  five,  five  and  a  half." 

Better  than  nothing,  was  all  I  could  think,  but  I 
can't  live  on  four  a  week. 

"How  often  do  you  pay?" 

"Every  Tuesday  night." 

This  meant  no  money  for  ten  days. 

"If  you  think  you'd  like  to  try  shaking  come  roiind 
Monday  morning  at  seven  o'clock." 

Which  I  took  as  my  dismissal  until  Monday. 

At  least  I  had  a  job,  however  poor,  and  strength- 
ened by  this  thought  I  determined  to  find  something 
better  before  Monday.  The  ten-cent  piece  lay  an 
inviting  fortune  in  my  hand.  I  was  to  part  with 
one-tenth  of  it  in  exchange  for  a  morning  newspaper. 
This  investment  seemed  a  reckless  plunge,  but 
"nothing  venture,  nothing  have,"  my  pioneer  spirit 
prompted,  and  soon  deep  in  the  list  of  Wanted, 
Females,  I  ielt  repaid.  Even  in  my  destitute 
condition  I  had  a  choice  in  mind.  If  possible  I 
wanted  to  work  without  machinery  in  a  shop  where 


no  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

the  girls  used  their  hands  alone  as  power.  Here 
seemed  to  be  my  heart's  content — a  short,  concise 
advertisement,  "Wanted,  hand  sewers."  After  a 
consultation  with  a  policeman  as  to  the  where- 
abouts of  my  future  employer,  it  became  evident 
that  I  must  part  with  another  of  my  ten  cents,  as  the 
hand  sewers  worked  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  city 
from  the  neighbourhood  whither  I  had  strayed  in 
my  morning's  wanderings.  I  took  a  car  and  alighted 
at  a  busy  street  in  the  fashionable  shopping  centre 
of  Chicago.  The  number  I  looked  for  was  over  a 
steep  flight  of  dirty  wooden  stairs.  If  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  luck  it  was  now  to  dwell  a  moment  with 
one  of  the  poorest.  I  pushed  open  a  swinging  door 
and  let  myself  into  the  office  of  a  clothing  manu- 
facturer. 

The  owner,  Mr.  F.,  got  up  from  his  desk  and 
came  toward  me. 

"I  seen  your  advertisement  in  the  morning  paper." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  in  a  kindly  voice.  "Are  you 
a  tailoress?" 

"No,  sir;  I've  never  done  much  sewing  except  on 
a  machine." 

"Well,  we  have  machines  here." 

"But,"  I  almost  interrupted,  beginning  to  fear 
that  my  training  at  Perry  was  to  limit  all  further 
experience  to  an  electric  Singer,  "I'd  rather  work 
with  my  hands.  I  like  the  hand-work." 

He  looked  at  me  and  gave  me  an  answer  which 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     in 

exactly  coincided  "with  my  theories.  He  said  this, 
and  it  was  just  what  I  wanted  him  to  say. 

"If  you  do  hand -work  you'll  have  to  use  your  mind. 
Lots  of  girls  come  in  here  with  an  idea  they  can  let 
their  thoughts  wander ;  but  you've  got  to  pay  strict 
attention.  You  can't  do  hand- work  mechanically." 

"All  right,  sir,"  I  responded.  "What  do  you 
pay?" 

"I'll  give  you  six  dollars  a  week  while  you're 
learning."  I  could  hardly  control  a  movement  of 
delight.  Six  dollars  a  week  !  A  dollar  a  day  for  an 
apprentice ! 

"But" — my  next  question  I  made  as  dismal  as 
possible — "when  do  you  pay?" 

"Generally  not  till  the  end  of  the  second  week," 
the  kindly  voice  said;  "but  we  could  arrange  to  pay 
you  at  the  end  of  the  first  if  you  needed  the  money." 

"Shall  I  come  in  Monday?" 

"Come  in  this  afternoon  at  12 130  if  you're  ready." 

"I'm  ready,"  I  said,  "but  I  ain't  brought  no  lunch 
with  me,  and  it's  too  late  now  to  get  home  and  back 
again." 

The  man  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  laid  down 
before  me  a  fifty-cent  piece,  advanced  on  my  pay. 

"Take  that,"  he  said,  with  courtesy;  "get  your- 
self a  lunch  in  the  neighbourhood  and  come  back  at 
half-past  twelve." 

I  went  to  the  nearest  restaurant.  It  was  an 
immense  bakery  patronized  by  office  girls  and  men, 


ii2  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

hard  workers  who  came  for  their  only  free  moment 
of  the  day  into  this  eating-place.  Everything  that 
could  be  swallowed  quickly  was  spread  out  on  a 
long  counter,  behind  which  there  were  steaming  tanks 
of  tea,  coffee  and  chocolate.  The  men  took  their 
food  downstairs  and  the  ladies  climbed  to  the  floor 
above.  I  watched  them.  They  were  self-supporting 
women — independent;  they  could  use  their  money 
as  they  liked.  They  came  in  groups — a  rustling 
frou-frou  announced  silk  underfittings ;  feathers, 
garlands  of  flowers,  masses  of  trimming  weighed 
down  their  broad-brimmed  picture  hats,  fancy  veils, 
kid  gloves,  silver  side-bags,  embroidered  blouses  and 
elaborate  belt  buckles  completed  the  detail  of 
their  showy  costumes,  the  whole  worn  with  the  air 
of  a  manikin.  What  did  these  busy  women  order 
for  lunch  ?  Tea  and  buns,  ice-cream  and  buckwheat 
cakes,  apple  pie  a  la  mode  and  chocolate  were  the 
most  serious  menus.  This  nourishing  food  they  ate 
with  great  nicety  and  daintiness,  talking  the  while 
about  clothes.  They  were  in  a  hurry,  as  all  of  them 
had  some  shopping  to  do  before  returning  to  work, 
and  they  each  spent  a  prinking  five  minutes  before 
the  mirror,  adjusting  the  trash  with  which  they  had 
bedecked  themselves  exteriorly  while  their  poor 
hard-working  systems  went  ungarnished  and 
hungry  within. 

This  is  the  wound  in  American  society  whereby 
its  strength  sloughs  away.     It  is  in  this  class  that 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     113 

campaigns  can  be  made,  directly  and  indirectly,  by 
preaching  and  by  example.  What  sort  of  women 
are  those  who  sacrifice  all  on  the  altar  of  luxury? 
It  is  a  prostitution  to  sell  the  body's  health  and 
strength  for  gewgaws.  What  harmony  can  there 
be  between  the  elaborate  get-up  of  these  young 
women  and  the  miserable  homes  where  they  live? 
The  idolizing  of  material  things  is  a  religion  nurtured 
by  this  class  of  whom  I  speak.  In  their  humble 
surroundings  the  love  of  self,  the  desire  to  possess 
things,  the  cherished  need  for  luxuries,  crowd  out 
the  feelings  that  make  character.  They  are  but  one 
manifestation  of  the  egoism  •  of  the  unmarried 
American  woman. 

For  what  and  for  whom  do  they  work  ? 

Is  their  fundamental  thought  to  be  of  benefit 
to  a  family  or  to  some  member  of  a  family? 
Is  their  indirect  object  to  be  strong,  thrifty  mem- 
bers of  society?  No.  Their  parents  are  secondary, 
their  health  is  secondary  to  the  consuming  vanity 
that  drives  them  toward  a  ruinous  goal.  They  scorn 
the  hand- workers ;  they  feel  themselves  a  noblesse  by 
comparison.  They  are  the  American  snobs  whose 
coat  of  arms  marks  not  a  well-remembered  family 
but  prospective  luxuries.  .  .  .  Married,  they 
bring  as  a  portion  thriftless  tastes,  to  satisfy  which 
more  than  one  business  man  has  wrecked  his  career. 
They  work  like  men;  why  should  they  not  live  as 
men  do,  with  similar  responsibilities  ?  What  should 


ii4  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

we  think  of  a  class  of  masculine  clerks  and  employees 
who  spent  all  their  money  on  clothes  ? 

The  boss  was  busy  when  I  got  back  to  the  clothing 
establishment.  From  the  bench  where  I  waited  for 
orders  I  could  take  an  inventory  of  the  shop's 
productions.  Arrayed  in  rows  behind  glass  cases 
there  were  all  manner  of  uniforms :  serious  uniforms 
going  to  the  colonies  to  be  shot  to  pieces,  militia 
uniforms  that  would  hear  their  loudest  heart-beats 
under  a  fair  head;  drum-majors'  hats  that  would 
never  get  farther  than  the  peaceful  lawn  of  a  military 
post;  fireman's  hats;  the  dark-blue  coat  of  a  lonely 
lighthouse  guardian;  the  undignified  short  jacket  of 
a  "buttons."  All  that  meant  parade  and  glory,  the 
uniforms  that  make  men  identical  by  making  each 
proud  of  himself  for  his  brass  buttons  and  gold  lace. 
Even  in  the  heavy  atmosphere  of  the  shop's  rear, 
though  they  appeared  somewhat  dingy  and  tarnished, 
they  had  their  undeniable  charm,  and  I  thought 
with  pity  of  the  hands  that  had  to  sew  on  plain 
serge  suits. 

As  soon* as  the  boss  saw  me,  the  generous  Mr.  F. 
who  advanced  me  the  fifty  cents  smiled  at  the 
skeptical  Mr.  F.  who  had  never  expected  to  see  me 
again.  One  self  said  to  the  other :  "I  told  you  so  !" 
and  all  the  kindly  lines  in  the  man's  (ace  showed 
that  he  had  looked  for  the  best  even  in  his  inferiors 
and  that  he  had  found  mankind  worth  trusting. 
He  was  the  most  generous  employer  I  met  with 


IN    A    CHICAGO    THEATRICAL    COSTUME    FACTORY 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     115 

anywhere;  I  also  took  him  to  be  the  least  business- 
like. But,  as  though  quickly  to  establish  the  law  of 
averages,  his  head  forewoman  counterbalanced  all  his 
mercies  by  her  ferocious  crossness.  She  terrorized 
everybody,  even  Mr.  F.  It  was  to  her,  I  concluded, 
that  we  owed  our  $6  a  week.  No  girl  would  stay 
for  less ;  it  was  an  atelier  chiefly  of  foreign  employees ; 
the  proud  American  spirit  would  not  stand  the  lash 
of  Frances'  tongue.  She  had  been  ten  years  in 
the  place  whose  mad  confusion  was  order  to  her. 
Mr.  F.  did  not  dare  to  send  her  away;  he 
preferred  keeping  a  perpetual  advertisement  in  the 
papers  and  changing  hands  every  few  days. 

The  workroom  on  our  floor  was  fifty  or  sixty  feet 
long,  with  windows  on  the  street  at  one  end  and 
on  a  court  at  the  other.  The  middle  of  the 
room  was  lighted  by  .gas.  The  air  was  foul  and  the 
dirt  lay  in  heaps  at  every  corner  and  was  piled  up 
under  the  centre  tables.  It  was  less  like  a  workshop 
than  an  old  attic.  There  was  the  long-accumulated 
disorder  of  hasty  preparation  for  the  vanities  of  life. 
It  had  not  at  all  the  aspect  of  a  factory  which  makes 
a  steady  provision  of  practical  things.  There  were 
odds  and  ends  of  fancy  costumes  hanging  about—- 
swords, crowns,  belts  and  badges.  Under  the  sewing 
machines'  swift  needles  flew  the  scarlet  coats  of  a 
regiment ;  gold  and  silver  braid  lay  unfurled  on  the 
table;  the  hand- workers  bent  over  an  armful  of 
khaki;  a  row  of  young  girls  were  fitting  military 


n6 


caps  to  imaginary  soldier's  heads;  the  ensigns  of 
glory  slipped  through  the  fingers  of  the  humble; 
chevrons  and  epaulets  were  caressed  never  so 
closely  by  toil-worn  hands.  In  the  midst  of  us  sits 
a  man  on  a  headless  hobby  horse,  making  small 
gray  trunks  bound  in  red  leather,  such  boxes  as 
might  contain  jewels  for  Marguerite,  a  game  of 
lotto,  or  a  collection  of  jack-straws  and  mother-of- 
pearl  counters  brought  home  from  a  first  trip  abroad. 
The  trunk  maker  wears  a  sombrero  and  smokes  a 
corn-cob  pipe.  He  is  very  handsome  with  dark 
eyes  and  fine  features,  and  he  has  the  "average 
figure,"  so  that  he  serves  as  manikin  for  the  atelier; 
and  I  find  him  alternately  a  workman  in  overalls  and 
a  Turkish  magnate  with  turban  and  flowing  robes. 
It  is  into  this  atmosphere  of  toil  and  unreality  that 
I  am  initiated  as  a  hand  sewer.  Something  of  the 
dramatic  and  theatrical  possesses  the  very  managers 
themselves.  Below,  a  regiment  waits  impatient  for 
new  brass  buttons;  we  sew  against  time  and  break 
all  our  promises.  Messengers  arrive  every  few 
minutes  with  fresh  reports  of  rising  ire  on  the  part 
of  disappointed  customers.  Down  the  stairs  pell- 
mell  comes  an  elderly  partner  of  the  firm  with  a 
gold-and-purple  crown  on  his  head  and  after  him 
follows  the  kindly  Mr.  F.  in  an  usher's  jacket.  "If 
you  don't  start  now,"  he  calls,  "that  order'll  be  left 
on  our  hands." 
Amid  such  confusion  the  regular  rhythm  of  the 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     117 

needle  as  it  carries  its  train  of  thread  across  the  yards 
of  coloured  cloth  is  peaceful,  consoling.  I  have  on 
one  side  of  me  a  tailor  who  speaks  only  Polish,  on 
the  other  side  a  seamstress  who  speaks  only  German. 
Across  the  frontier  I  thus  become  they  communicate 
with  signs,  and  I  get  my  share  of  work  planned  out 
by  each.  Every  woman  in  the  place  is  cross  except 
the  girl  next  to  me.  She  has  only  just  come  in  and 
the  poison  of  the  forewoman  has  not  yet  stung  her 
into  ill  nature.  She  is,  like  all  the  foreigners, 
neatly,  soberly  dressed  in  a  sensible  frock  of  good 
durable  material.  The  few  Americans  in  the  shop 
have  on  elaborate  shirt-waists  in  light-coloured  silks 
with  fancy  ribbon  collars.  We  are  well  paid,  there 
<is  no  doubt  of  it.  We  begin  work  at  8  A.  M.  and  have 
a  generous  half -hour  at  noon.  Most  of  the  girls  are 
Germans  and  Poles,  and  they  have  all  received 
training  as  tailoresses  in  their  native  countries.  To 
the  sharp  onslaught  of  Frances'  tongue  they  make  no 
response  except  in  dogged  silent  obedience,  whereas 
the  dressy  Americans  with  their  proper  spirit  of 
independence  touch  the  limit  of  insubordination  at 
every  new  command.  Insults  are  freely  exchanged ; 
threats  ring  out  on  the  tired  ears.-  Frances  is 
ubiquitous.  She  scolds  the  tailors  with  a  torrent  of 
abuse,  she  terrorizes  the  handsome  manikin,,  she 
bewilders  the  kindly  Mr.  F.,  and  before  three  days 
have  passed  she  has  dismissed  the  neat  little  Polish 
girl,  in  tears.  This  latter  comes  to  me,  her  face 


n8  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

wrought  with  emotion.  She  was  receiving  n  ne 
dollars  a  week;  it  is  her  first  place  in  America.  This 
sudden  dismissal,  its  injustice,  requires  an  explana- 
tion. She  cannot  speak  a  word  of  English  and 
asks  me  to  put  my  poor  German  at  her  service  as 
interpreter. 

Mr.  F.  is  clearly  a  man  who  advocates  everything 
for  peace,  and  as  there  is  for  him  no  peace  when 
Frances  is  not  satisfied,  we  gain  little  by  our  appeal 
to  him  except  a  promise  that  he  will  attend  later  to 
the  troubles  of  the  Polish  girl.  But  later,  as  earlier, 
Frances  triumphs,  and  I  soon  bid  good-by  to  my 
seatmate  and  watch  her  tear-stained  face  disappear 
down  the  dingy  hallway.  She  was  a  skilled  tailoress, 
but  she  could  not  cut  out  men's  garments,  so  Frances 
dismissed  her.  I  wonder  when  my  turn  will  come, 
for  I  am  a  green  hand  and  yet  determined  to  keep 
the  American  spirit.  For  the  sake  of  justice  I  will 
not  be  downed  by  Frances. 

It  is  hard  to  make  friends  with  the  girls;  we  dare 
not  converse  lest  a  fresh  insult  be  hurled  at  us.  For 
every  mistake  I  receive  a  loud,  severe  correction. 
When  night  comes  I  am  exhausted.  The  work  is 
easy,  yet  the  moral  atmosphere  is  more  wearing  than 
the  noise  of  many  machines.  My  job  is  often 
changed  during  the  week.  I  do  everything  as  a 
greenhorn,  but  I  work  hard  and  pay  attention,  so 
that  there  is  no  excuse  to  dismiss  me. 

"I  am  only  staying  here  between  jobs,"  the  girl 


next  me  volunteers  at  lunch.  "My  regular  place 
burnt  out.  You  couldn't  get  me  to  work  under  her. 
I  wouldn't  stand  it  even  if  they  do  pay  well."  She 
is  an  American. 

"You're  lucky  to  be  so  independent,"  says  a 
German  woman  whose  dull  silence  I  had  hitherto 
taken  for  ill  nature.  "I'm  glad  enough  to  get  the 
money.  I  was  up  this  morning  at  five,  working. 
There's  myself  and  my  mother  and  my  little  girl, 
and  not  a  cent  but  what  I  make.  My  husband  is 
sick.  He's  in  Arizona." 

"  What  were  you  doing  at  five?"  I  asked. 

"I  have  a  trade,"  she  answers.  "I  work  on  hair 
goods.  It  don't  bring  me  much,  but  I  get  in  a  few 
hours  night  and  morning  and  it, helps  some.  There's 
so  much  to  pay." 

She  was  young,  but  youth  is  no  lover  of  dis- 
comfort. Hardships  had  chased  every  vestige  of 
jeunesse  from  her  high,  wrinkled  brow  and  tired 
brown  eyes.  Like  a  mirror  held  against  despair  her 
face  reflected  no  ray  of  hope.  She  was  not  rebellious, 
but  all  she  knew  of  life  was  written  there  in  lines 
whose  sadness  a  smile  now  and  again  intensified. 

Added  to  the  stale,  heavy  atmosphere  there  is  now 
a  smell  of  coffee  and  tobacco  smoke.  The  old  hands 
have  boiled  a  noon  beverage  on  the  gas ;  the  tailors 
smoke  an  after-dinner  pipe.  Put  up  in  newspaper 
by  Mrs.  Wood,  at  my  matinal  departure,  my  lunches, 
after  a  journey  across  the  city,  held  tightly  under  my 


120  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

arm,  become,  before  eating,  a  block  of  food,  a  com- 
posite meal  in  which  I  can  distinguish  original  bits 
of  ham  sandwich  and  apple  pie.  The  work,  however, 
does  not  seem  hard  to  me.  I  sew  on  buttons,  rip 
trousers,  baste  coat  sleeves — I  do  all  sorts  of  odd 
jobs  from  eight  until  six,  without  feeling,  in  spite  of 
the  bad  air,  any  great  physical  fatigue  which  ten 
minutes'  brisk  walk  does  not  shake  off.  But  never 
have  the  hours  dragged  so;  the  moral  weariness  in 
the  midst  of  continual  scolding  and  abuse  are 
unbearable.  Each  night  I  come  to  a  firm  decision 
to  leave  the  following  day,  but  weakly  I  return,  sure 
of  my  dollar  and  dreading  to  face  again  the  giant 
city  in  search  of  work.  About  four  one  afternoon, 
well  on  in  the  week,  Frances  brings  me  a  pair  of 
military  trousers;  the  stripes  of  cloth  at  the  side 
seam  are  to  be  ripped  off.  I  go  to  work  cheerfully 
cutting  the  threads  and  slipping  one  piece  of  cloth 
from  the  other. 

Apparently  Frances  is  exasperated  that  I  should 
do  the  job  in  an  easy  way.  It  is  the  only  way  I 
know  to  rip,  but  Frances  knows  another  way  that 
breaks  your  back  and  almost  puts  your  eyes  out, 
that  makes  you  tired  and  behindhand  and  sure  of 
a  scolding.  She  shows  me  how  to  rip  her  way.  The 
two  threads  of  the  machine,  one  from  above  and 
one  from  below,  which  make  the  stitch,  must  be 
separated.  The  work  must  be  turned  first  on  the 
wrong,  then  on  the  right  side,  the  scissors  must  lift 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     121 

first  the  upper,  then  the  under  thread.  I  begin  by 
cutting  a  long  hole  in  the  trousers,  which  I  hide  so 
Frances  will  not  see  it.  She  has  frightened  me  into 
dishonesty.  Arrived  at  the  middle  of  the  stripe  I 
am  obliged  to  turn  the  trousers  wrong  side  out  and 
right  side  out  again  every  other  stitch.  While  I 
was  working  in  this  way,  getting  more  enraged 
every  moment,  a  bedbug  ran  out  of  the  seam 
between  my  fingers.  I  killed  it.  It  was  full  of  blood 
and  made  a  wet  red  spot  on  the  table.  Then  I  put 
down  the  trousers  and  drew  away  my  chair.  It  was 
useless  saying  anything  to  the  girl  next  me.  She 
was  a  Pole,  dull,  sullen,  without  a  friendly  word; 
but  the  two  women  beyond  had  told  me  once  that 
they  pitied  Frances'  husband,  so  I  looked  to  them 
for  support  in  what  I  was  about  to  do. 

"There's  bedbugs  in  them  clothes,"  I  said.  "I 
won't  work  on  'em.  No,  sir,  not  if  she  sends  me 
away  this  very  minute." 

In  a  great  hurry  Frances  passed  me  twice.  She 
called  out  angrily  both  times  without  waiting  for  an 
answer : 

"Why  don't  you  finish  them  pants?" 

Frances  was  a  German.  She  wore  two  rhinestone 
combs  in  her  frizzes,  which  held  also  dust  and  burnt 
odds  and  ends  of  hair.  She  had  no  lips  whatever. 
Her  mouth  shut  completely  over  them  after  each 
tirade.  Her  eyes  were  separated  by  two  deep  scowls 
and  her  voice  was  shrill  and  nasal. 


122  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

On  her  third  round  she  faced  me  with  the  same 
question : 

"Why  don't  you  finish  them  pants?" 

"Because,"  I  answered  this  time,  "there's  bed- 
bugs in  'em  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  touch  'em !" 

"Oh!  my!"  she  taunted  me,  in  a  sneering  voice, 
"that's  dreadful,  ain't  it?  Bedbugs!  Why,  you 
need  only  just  look  on  the  floor  to  see  'em  running 
around  anywhere !" 

I  said  nothing  more,  and  this  remark  was  the 
last  Prances  ever  addressed  to  me. 

"Mike!"  she  called  to  the  presser  in  the 
corner,  "will  you  have  this  young  lady's  card  made 
out." 

She  gave  me  no  further  work  to  do,  but,  too 
humiliated  to  sit  idle,  I  joined  a  group  of  girls  who 
were  sewing  badges. 

We  had  made  up  all  description  of  political 
badges — badges  for  the  court,  for  processions,  school 
badges,  military  badges,  flimsy  bits  of  coloured  rib- 
bon and  gold  fringe  which  go  the  tour  of  the 
world,  rallying  men  to  glory.  In  the  dismal  twi- 
light our  fingers  were  now  busied  with  black-and- 
silver  "in  memoriam"  badges,  to  be  worn  as  a  last 
tribute  to  some  dead  member  of  a  coterie  who 
would  follow  him  to  the  grave  under  the  emblem 
that  had  united  them. 

We  were  behindhand  for  the  dead  as  well  as  for 
the  living.  At  six  the  power  was  turned  off,  the 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     123 

machine  hands  went  home,  there  was  still  an 
unfinished  heap  of  black  badges. 

I  got  up  and  put  on  my  things  in  the  dark  closet 
that  served  for  dressing-room.  Frances  called  to 
the  hand  sewers  in  her  rasping  voice: 

"You  darsn't  leave  till  you've  finished  them 
badges." 

How  could  I  feel  the  slavery  they  felt  ?  My  nerves 
were  sensitive ;  I  was  unaccustomed  to  their  familiar 
hardships.  But  on  the  other  hand,  my  prison  had  an 
escape ;  they  were  bound  within  four  walls ;  I  dared 
to  rebel  knowing  the  resources  of  the  black  silk 
emergency  bag,  money  lined.  They  for  their  living 
must  pay  with  moral  submission  as  well  as  physical 
fatigue.  There  was  nothing  between  them  and 
starvation  except  the  success  of  their  daily  effort. 
What  opposition  could  the  German  woman  place, 
what  could  she  risk,  knowing  that  two  hungry 
mouths  waited  to  be  fed  beside  her  own  ? 

With  a  farewell  glance  at  the  rubbish-strewn 
room,  the  high,  grimy  windows,  the  group  of 
hand  sewers  bent  over  their  work  in  the  increas- 
ing darkness,  I  started  down  the  stairs.  A  hand 
was  laid  on  my  arm,  and  I  looked  up  and  saw 
Mike's  broad  Irish  face  and  sandy  head  bending 
toward  me. 

"I  suppose  you  understand,"  he  said,  "that 
there'll  be  no  more  work  for  you." 

"Yes,"    I    answered,    "I    understand,"    and   we 


i24  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

exchanged  a  glance  that  meant  we  both  agreed 
it  was  Frances'  fault. 

In  the  shop  below  I  found  Mr.  F.  and  returned 
the  fifty  cents  he  had  advanced  me.  He  seemed 
surprised  at  this. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  in  his  gentle  voice,  "that  we 
couldn't  arrange  things." 

"  I'm  sorry,  too,"  I  said.  But  I  dared  not  add  a 
word  against  Frances.  She  had  terrorized  me  like 
the  rest,  and  though  I  knew  I  never  would  see  her 
again,  her  pale,  lifeless  mask  haunted  me.  I  remem- 
bered a  remark  the  German  woman  had  made  when 
Frances  dismissed  the  Polish  girl:  "People  ought 
to  make  it  easy,  and  not  hard,  for  others  to  earn 
a  living." 

At  the  end  of  this  somewhat  agitating '  day  I 
returned  to  my  tenement  lodgings  as  to  a  haven  of 
rest.  There  was  one  other  lodger  besides  myself: 
she  was  studying  music  on  borrowed  money  at  four 
dollars  a  lesson.  Obviously  she  was  a  victim  to 
luxury  in  the  same  degree  as  the  young  women  with 
whom  I  had  lunched  at  the  bakery.  Nothing  that 
'a  rich  society  girl  might  have  had  been  left  out  of  her 
wardrobe,  and  borrowed  money  seemed  as  good  as 
any  for  making  a  splurge. 

Miss  Arnold  was  something  of  a  snob,  intellectual 
and  otherwise.  It  was  evident  from  my  wretched 
clothes  and  poor  grammar  that  I  was  not 
accustomed  to  ladies  of  her  type,  but,  far  from 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     125 

sparing  me,  she  humiliated  me  with  all  sorts  of 
questions. 

"I'm  tired  of  taffeta  jackets,  aren't  you?"  she 
would  ask,  apropos  of  my  flimsy  ulster.  "I  had 
taffeta  last  year,  with  velvet  and  satin  this  winter; 
but  I  don't  know  what  I'll  get  yet  this  summer." 

After  supper,  on  my  return,  I  found  her  sitting  in 
the  parlour  with  Mrs.  Brown.  They  never  lighted 
the  gas,  as  there  was  an  electric  lamp  which  sent  its 
rays  aslant  the  street  and  repeated  the  pattern  of 
the  window  curtains  all  over  Mrs.  Brown's  face  and 
hands. 

Drawn  up  on  one  end  of  the  horsehair  sofa, 
Miss  Arnold,  in  a  purple  velvet  blouse,  chatted  to 
Mrs.  Brown  and  me. 

"  I'm  from  Jacksonville,"  she  volunteered,  patting 
her  masses  of  curly  hair.  "Do  you  know  anybody 
from  Jacksonville?  It's  an  elegant  town,  so  much 
wealth,  so  many  retired  farmers,  and  it's  such  an 
educational  centre.  Do  you  like  reading?"  she 
asked  me. 

"  I  don't  get  time,"  is  my  response. 

"Oh,  my!"  she  rattles  on.  "I'm  crazy  about 
reading,  I  do  love  blank  verse — it  makes  the 
language  so  choice,  like  in  Shakespeare." 

Mrs.  Brown  and  I,  being  in  the  majority  as  opposed 
to  this  autocrat,  remain  placid.  A  current  of  under- 
standing exists  between  us.  Miss  Arnold,  on  the 
other  hand,  finds  our  ignorance  a  flattering  back- 


i26  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

ground  for  her  learning  and  adventures.  She  is  so 
obviously  a  woman  of  the  world  on  the  tenement 
horsehair  sofa. 

"In  case  you  don't  like  your  work,"  she  Lady 
Bountifuls  me,  "I  can  get  you  a  stylish  place  as 
maid  with  some  society  people  just  out  of  Chicago 
—friends  of  mine,  an  elegant  family." 

"  I  don't  care  to  live  out,"  I  respond,  thanking  her. 
"  I  like  my  Sundays  and  my  evenings  off." 

Mrs.  Brown  pricks  up  her  ears  at  this,  and  I  notice 
that  thereafter  she  keeps  close  inquiry  as  to  how  my 
Sundays  and  evenings  are  spent. 

But  the  bell  rings.  Miss  Arnold  is  called  for  by 
friends  to  play  on  the  piano  at  an  evening  entertain- 
ment. Mrs.  Brown  and  I,  being  left  alone,  begin  a 
conversation  of  the  personal  kind,  which  is  the  only 
resource  among  the  poor.  If  she  had  had  any 
infirmity — a  wooden  leg  or  a  glass  eye — she  would 
naturally  have  begun  by  showing  it  to  me,  but  as 
she  had  been  spared  intact  she  chose  second  best. 

"I've  had  lots  of  shocks,"  she"  said,  rocking  back 
and  forth  in  a  squeaky  rocking-chair.  The  light 

» 

from  over  the  way  flickered  and  gleamed.  Mrs. 
Brown's  broad,  yellow  face  and  gray  hair  were  now 
brilliant,  now  somber,  as  she  rocked  in  and  out  of 
the  silver  rays.  Her  voice  was  a  metallic  whine, 
and  when  she  laughed  against  her  regular,  even,  false 
teeth  there  was  a  sound  like  the  mechanical  yelp  of  a 
toy  cat.  Married  at  sixteen,  her  whole  life  had  been 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     127 

Brown  on  earth  below  and  God  in  His  heaven  above. 
Childless,  she  and  Brown  had  spent  over  fifty  years 
together.  It  was  natural  in  the  matter  of  shocks 
the  first  she  should  tell  me  about  was  Brown's  death. 
The  story  began  with  "  a  breakfast  one  Sunday  morn- 
ing at  nine  o'clock.  .  .  .  Brown  always  made 
the  fire,  raked  down  the  ashes,  set  the  coffee  to  boil, 
and  when  the  toast  and  eggs  were  ready  he  called  me. 
And  that  wasn't  one  morning,  mind  you — it  was 
every  morning  for  fifty  years.  But  this  particular 
morning  I  noticed  him  speaking  strange ;  his  tongue 
was  kind  o'  thick.  He  didn't  hardly  eat  nothing, 
and  as  soon  as  I'd  done  he  got  up  and  carried  the 
ashes  downstairs  to  dump  'em.  When  he  come  up 
he  seemed  d,izzy.  I  says  to  him,  'Don't  you  feel 
good  ? '  but  he  didn't  seem  able  to  answer.  He  made 
like  he  was  going  to  undress.  He  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  for  his  watch,  and  he  put  it  in  again  for  his 
pocketbook;  but  the  second  time  it  stayed  in — he 
couldn't  move  it  no  more ;  it  was  dead  and  cold  when 
I  touched  it.  He  leaned  up  against  the  wall,  and  I 
tried  to  get  him  over  on  to  the  sofa.  When  I  looked 
into  his  eyes  I  see  that  he  was  gone.  He  couldn't 
stand,  but  I  held  on  to  him  with  all  my  force;  I 
didn't  let  his  head  strike  as  he  went  down.  When 
he  fell  we  fell  together."  Her  voice  was  choked ;  even 
now  after  three  years  as  she  told  the  story  she  could 
not  believe  it  herself. 

Presently  when  she  is  calm  again  she  continues 


128  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

the  recital  of  her  shocks — three  times  struck  by 
lightning  and  once  run  over.  Her  simple  descriptions 
are  straightforward  and  dramatic.  As  she  talks 
the  wind  blows  against  the  windows,  the  shutters 
rattle  and  an  ugly  white  china  knob,  against  which 
the  curtains  are  draped,  falls  to  the  floor.  Tenderly, 
amazed,  she  picks  it  up  and  looks  at  it. 

"Brown  put  that  up,"  she  says;  "there  hasn't  no 
hand  touched  it  since  his'n." 

Proprietor  of  this  house  in  which  she  lives, 
Mrs.  Brown  is  fairly  well  off.  She  rents  one  floor  to 
an  Italian  family,  one  to  some  labourers,  and  one 
to  an  Irishman  and  his  wife  who  get  drunk  from 
time  to  time  and  rouse  us  in  the  night  with  tumult 
and  scuffling.  She  has  a  way  of  disappearing  for  a 
week  or  more  and  returning  without  giving  any 
account  of  herself.  Relations  are  strained,  and 
Mrs.  Brown  in  speaking  of  her  says : 

"I  don't  care  what  trouble  I  was  in,  I  wouldn't 
call  in  that  Irish  woman.  I  don't  have  anything  to 
do  with  her.  I'd  rather  get  the  Dago  next  door," 
And  hereafter  follows  a  mild  tirade  against  the 
Italians — the  same  sentiments  I  have  heard 
expressed  before  in  the  labouring  centres. 

"They're  kind  folks  and  good  neighbours,"  Mrs. 
Brown  explains,  "but  they're  different  from  us. 
They  eat  what  the  rest  of  us  throw  away,  and  there's 
no  work  they  won't  do.  They're  putting  money 
aside  fast;  most  of  'em  owns  their  own  houses;  but 


CHICAGO    TYPES 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN  CHICAGO     129 

since  they've  moved  into  this  neighbourhood  the 
price  of  property's  gone  down.  I  don't  have  nothing 
to  do  with  'em.  We  don't  any  of  us.  They're  not 
like  us ;  they're  different." 

Without  letting  a  day  elapse  I  started  early  the 
following  morning  in  search  of  a  new  job.  The 
paper  was  full  of  advertisements,  but  there  was 
'some  stipulation  in  each  which  narrowed  my  possi- 
bilities of  getting  a  place,  as  I  was  an  unskilled  hand. 
There  was,  however,  one  simple  "Girls  wanted !" 
which  I  answered,  prepared  for  anything  but  an 
electric  sewing  machine. 

The  address  took  me  to  a  more  fashionable  side  of 
the  city,  near  the  lake;  a  wide  expanse  of  pale, 
shimmering  water,  it  lay  a  refreshing  horizon  for 
eyes  long  used  to  poverty's  quarters.  Like  a  sea, 
it  rolled  white-capped  waves  toward  the  shore  from 
its  far-away  emerald  surface  where  sail-freighted 
barks  traveled  at  the  wind's  will.  Free  from  man's 
disfiguring  touch,  pure,  immaculate,  it  appeared 
bridelike  through  a  veil  of  morning  mist.  And  at 
its  very  brink  are  the  turmoil  and  confusion  of 
America's  giant  industries.  In  less  than  an  hour  I 
am  receiving  wages  from  a  large  picture  frame 
company  in  East  Lake  Street.  Once  more  I  have 
made  the  observation  that  men  are  more  agreeable 
bosses  than  women.  The  woman,  when  she  is  not 
exceptionally  disagreeable,  like  Frances,  is  always 
annoying.  She  bothers  and  nags;  things  must  be 


1 30  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

done  her  way;  she  enjoys  the  legitimate  minding  of 
other  people's  business.  Aiming  at  results  only, 
the  masculine  mind  is  more  tranquil.  Provided  you 
get  your  work  done,  the  man  boss  doesn't  care  what 
methods  you  take  in  doing  it.  For  the  woman 
boss,  whether  you  get  your  work  done  or  not,  you 
must  do  it  her  way  The  overseer  at  J.'s  picture 
frame  manufactory  is  courteous,  friendly,  consid- 
erate. I  have  a  feeling  that  he  wishes  me  to 
cooperate  with  him,  not  to  be  terrorized  and  driven 
to  death  by  him.  My  spirits  rise  at  once,  my  ambi- 
tion is  stimulated,  and  I  desire  his  approval.  The 
work  is  all  done  by  the  piece,  he  explains  to  me, 
telling  me  the  different  prices.  The  girls  work 
generally  in  teams  of  three,  dividing  profits.  Nothing 
could  be  more  modern,  more  middle-class,  more 
popular,  more  philistine  than  the  production  of  J.'s 
workrooms.  They  are  the  cheap  imitations  fed  to  a 
public  hungry  for  luxury  or  the  semblance  of  it. 
Nothing  is  genuine  in  the  entire  shop.  Water 
colours  are  imitated  in  chromo,  oils  are  imitated  in 
lithograph,  white  carved  wood  frames  are  imitated 
in  applications  of  pressed  brass.  Great  works  of  art 
are  belittled  by  processes  cheap  enough  to  be  within 
reach  of  the  poorest  pocket.  Framed  pictures  are 
turned  out  by  the  thousand  dozens,  every  size,  from 
the  smallest  domestic  scene,  which  hangs  over  the 
baby's  crib  in  a  Harlem  flat,  to  the  large  wedding- 
present  size  placed  over  the  piano  in  the  front  parlour. 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     131 

The  range  of  subjects  covers  a  familiar  list  of  com- 
edies or  tragedies — the  partings  before  war,  the 
interior  behind  prison  bars,  the  game  of  marbles, 
the  friendly  cat  and  dog,  the  chocolate  girl,  the 
skipper  and  his  daughter,  etc.,  etc. 

My  job  is  easy,  but  slow.  With  a  hammer  and 
tacks  I  fasten  four  tin  mouldings  to  the  four  corners 
of  a  gilt  picture  frame.  Twenty-five  cents  for  a 
hundred  is  the  pay  given  me,  and  it  takes  me  half  a 
day  to  do  this  many ;  but  my  comrades  don't  allow 
me  to  get  discouraged. 

"You're  doing  well,"  a  red-haired  vis-a-vis  calls 
to  me  across  the  table.  And  the  foreman,  who  comes 
often  to  see  how  I  am  getting  along,  tells  me  that  the 
next  day  we  are  to  begin  team-work,  which  pays 
much  better. 

The  hours  are  ten  a  day:  from  seven  until  five 
thirty,  with  twenty-five  minutes  at  noon  instead 
of  half  an  hour.  The  extra  five  minutes  a  day 
mount  up  to  thirty  minutes  a  week  and  let  us  off 
at  five  on  Saturdays. 

The  conversation  around  me  leads  me  to  suppose 
that  my  companions  are  not  downtrodden  in  any 
way,  nor  that  they  intend  letting  work  interfere 
with  happiness.  They  have  in  their  favour  the 
most  blessed  of  all  gifts — youth.  The  tragic  faces 
one  meets  with  are  of  the  women  breadwinners 
whose  burdens  are  overwhelming  and  of  the  children 
in  whom  physical  fatigue  arrests  development  and 


1 32  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

all  possibility  of  pleasure.  My  present  team-mates 
and  those  along  the  rest  of  the  room  are  Americans 
between  fourteen  and  twenty-four  years  of  age,  full 
of  unconscious  hope  for  the  future,  which  is  natural 
in  healthy,  well-fed  youth,  taking  their  work  cheerily 
as  a  self-imposed  task  in  exchange  for  which  they  can 
have  more  clothes  and  more  diversions  during  their 
leisure  hours. 

The  profitable  job  given  us  on  the  following  day 
is  monotonous  and  dirty,  but  we  net  $1.05  each. 
There  is  a  mechanical  roller  which  passes  before  us, 
carrying  at  irregular  intervals  a  large  sheet  of 
coloured  paper  covered  with  glue.  My  vis-a-vis  and 
I  lay  the  palms  of  our  right  hands  on  to  the  glue 
surface  and  lift  the  sheet  of  paper  to  its  place  on  the 
table  before  us,  over  a  stiff  square  of  bristol  board. 
The  boss  of  the  team  fixes  the  two  sheets  together 
with  a  brush  which  she  manipulates  skilfully.  We 
are  making  in  this  way  the  stiff  backs  which  hold 
the  pictures  into  their  frames.  When  we  have 
fallen  into  the  proper  swing  we  finish  one  hundred 
sheets  every  forty-five  minutes.  We  could  work 
more  rapidly,  but  the  sheets  are  furnished  to  us  at 
this  rate,  and  it  is  so  comfortable  that  conversation 
is  not  interrupted.  The  subjects  are  the  same  as 
elsewhere — dress,  young  men,  entertainments.  The 
girls  have  "beaux"  and  "steady  beaux."  The  expres- 
sion, "Who  is  she  going  with?"  means  who  is  her 
steady  beau.  "I've  got  Jim  Smith  now,  but  I  don't 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     133 

know  whether  I'll  keep  him,"  means  that  Jim  Smith 
is  on  trial  as  a  beau  and  may  become  a  "steady." 
They  go  to  Sunday  night  subscription  dances  and 
arrive  Monday  morning  looking  years  older  than  on 
Saturday,  after  having  danced  until  early  morning. 
"There's  nothing  so  smart  for  a  ball,"  the  mundane 
of  my  team  tells  us,  ''as  a  black  skirt  and  white 
silk  waist." 

About  ten  in  the  morning  most  of  us  eat  a  pickle 
or  a  bit  of  cocoanut  cake  or  some  titbit  from  the 
lunch  parcel  which  is  opened  seriously  at  twelve. 

The  light  is  good,  the  air  is  good,  the  room  where 
we  work  is  large  and  not  crowded,  the  foreman  is 
kind  and  friendly,  the  girls  are  young  and  cheerful ; 
one  can  make  $7  to  $8  a  week. 

The  conditions  at  J.  's  are  too  favourable  to  be 
interesting,  and,  having  no  excuse  to  leave,  I  disap- 
pear one  day  at  lunch  time  and  never  return  to  get 
my  apron  or  my  wages.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  draw 
upon  the  resources  of  the  black  silk  bag,  but  before 
returning  to  my  natural  condition  of  life  I  wish  to 
try  one  more  place:  a  printing  job.  There  are 
quantities  of  advertisements  in  the  papers  for  girls 
needed  to  run  presses  of  different  sorts,  so  on  the 
very  afternoon  of  my  self-dismissal  I  start  through 
the  hot  summer  streets  in  search  of  a  situation.  On 
the  day  when  my  appearance  is  most  forlorn  I  find 
policemen  always  as  officially  polite  as  when  I  am 
dressed  in  my  best.  Other  people  of  whom  I  inquire 


134 

my  way  are  sometimes  curt,  sometimes  compas- 
sionate, seldom  indifferent,  and  generally  much 
nicer  or  not  nearly  as  nice  as  they  would  be  to  a 
rich  person.  Poor  old  women  to  whom  I  speak 
often  call  me  "dear"  in  answering. 

Under  the  trellis  of  the  elevated  road  the  "cables" 
clang  their  way.  Trucks  and  automobiles,  delivery 
wagons  and  private  carriages  plunge  over  the  rough 
pavements.  The  sidewalks  are  crowded  with  people 
who  are  dressed  for  business,  and  who,  whether  men 
or  women,  are  a  business  type ;  the  drones  who  taste 
not  of  the  honey  stored  in  the  hives  which  line  the 
streets  and  tower  against  the  blue  sky,  veiling  it  with 
smoke.  The  orderly  rush  of  busy  people,  among 
whom  I  move  toward  an  address  given  in  the  paper, 
is  suddenly  changed  into  confusion  and  excitement 
by  the  bell  of  a  fire-engine  which  is  dragged  clattering 
over  the  cobbles,  followed  closely  by  another  and 
another  before  the  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs  have 
died  away.  Excitement  for  a  moment  supersedes 
business.  The  fire  takes  precedence  before  the  office, 
and  a  crowd  stands  packed  against  policemen's 
arms,  gazing  upward  at  a  low  brick  building  which 
sends  forth  flames  hotter  than  the  brazen  sun, 
smoke  blacker  than  the  perpetual  veil  of  soot. 

I  compare  the  dingy  gold  number  over  the  burning 
door  with  the  number  in  print  on  the  newspaper  slip 
held  between  my  thumb  and  forefinger.  Decidedly 
this  is  not  one  of  my  lucky  days.  The  numbers 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     135 

correspond.  But  there  are  other  addresses  and  I 
collect  a  series  of  replies.  The  employer  in  a  box 
factory  on  the  West  Side  takes  my  address  and 
promises  to  let  me  know  if  he  has  a  vacancy  for  an 
unskilled  hand.  Another  boss  printer,  after  much 
urging  on  my  part,  consents  to  give  me  a  trial  the 
following  Monday  at  three  dollars  a  week.  A 
kindly  forelady  in  a  large  printing  establishment  on 
Wabash  Avenue  sends  me  away  because  she  wants 
only  trained  workers.  "I'm  real  sorry,"  she  says. 
"You're  from  the  East,  aren't  you?  I  notice  you 
speak  with  an  accent." 

By  this  time  it  is  after  three  in  the  afternoon ;  my 
chances  are  diminishing  as  the  day  goes  on  and 
others  apply  before  me.  There  is  one  more  possi- 
bility at  a  box  and  label  company  which  has  adver- 
tised for  a  girl  to  feed  a  Gordon  press.  I  have  never 
heard  of  a  Gordon  press,  but  I  make  up  my 
mind  not  to  leave  the  label  company  without  the 
promise  of  a  job  for  the  very  next  day.  The  stair- 
way is  dingy  and  irregular.  My  spirits  are  not 
buoyant  as  I  open  a  swinging  door  and  enter  a  room 
with  a  cage  in  the  middle,  where  a  lady  cashier, 
dressed  in  a  red  silk  waist,  sits  on  a  high  stool  over- 
looking the  office.  Three  portly  men,  fat,  well 
nourished,  evidently  of  one  family,  are  installed 
behind  yellow  ash  desks,  each  with  a  lady  typewriter 
at  his  right  hand.  I  go  timidly  up  to  the  fattest  of 
the  three.  He  is  in  shirt  sleeves,  evidently  feeling 


136  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

the  heat  painfully  He  pretends  to  be  very  busy 
and  hardly  looks  up  when  I  say :  - 

"I  seen  your  ad.  in  the  paper  this  morning." 

"You're  rather  late,"  is  his  answer.  "I've  got  two 
girls  engaged  already." 

"Too  late  !"  I  say  with  an  intonation  which  inter- 
rupts his  work  for  a  minute  while  he  looks  at  me. 
I  profit  by  this  moment,  and,  changing  from  tragedy 
to  a  good-humoured  smile,  I  ask : 

"Say,  are  you  sure  those  girls  '11  come?  You 
can't  always  count  on  us,  you  know." 

He  laughs  at  this.  "Have  you  ever  run  a  Gordon 
press?" 

"No,  sir;  but  I'm  awful  handy." 

"Where  have  you  been  working?" 

"At  J.'s  in  Lake  Street." 

"What  did  you  make  ?" 

"A  dollar  a  day." 

"Well,  you  come  in  to-morrow  about  eleven  and 
I'll  tell  you  then  whether  I  can  give  you  anything  to 
do." 

"Can't  you  be  sure  now?" 

Truly  disappointed,  my  voice  expresses  the  eager- 
ness I  feel. 

"Well,"  the  fat  man  says  indulgently,  "you  come 
in  to-morroW  morning  at  eight  and  I'll  give  you  a 
job." 

The  following  day  I  begin  my  last  and  by  far  my 
most  trying  apprenticeship. 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     137 

The  noise  of  a  single  press  is  deafening.  In  the 
room  where  I  work  there  are  ten  presses  on  my  row, 
eight  back  of  us  and  four  printing  machines  back  of 
them.  On  one  side  of  the  room  only  are  there 
windows.  The  air  is  heavy  with  the  sweet,  stifling 
smell  of  printer's  ink  and  cheap  paper.  A  fine  rain 
of  bronze  dust  sifts  itself  into  the  hair  and  clothes  of 
the  girls  at  our  end  of  .the  room,  where  they  are 
bronzing  coloured  advertisements.  The  work  is  all 
done  standing;  the  hours  are  from  seven  until  six, 
with  half  an  hour  at  noon,  and  holiday  at  one  thirty 
on  Saturdays.  It  is  to  feed  a  machine  that  I  am  paid 
three  dollars  a  week.  The  expression  is  admirably 
chosen.  The  machine's  iron  jaws  yawn  for  food; 
they  devour  all  I  give,  and  when  by  chance  I  am 
slow  they  snap  hungrily  at  my  hand  and  would 
crush  my  ringers  did  I  not  snatch  them  away, 
feeling  the  first  cold  clutch.  It  is  nervous  work. 
Each  leaf  to  be  printed  must  be  ^handled  twice ; 
5,000  circulars  or  bill-heads  mean  10,000  gestures 
for  the  printer,  and  this  is  an  afternoon's  work. 

Into  the  square  marked  out  for  it  by  steel  guards 
the  paper  must  be  slipped  with  the  right  hand,  while 
the  machine  is  open ;  with  the  left  hand  the  printed 
paper  must  be  pulled  out  and  a  second  fitted  in  its 
place  before  the  machine  closes  again.  What  a 
master  to  serve  is  this  noisy  iron  mechanism  ani- 
mated by  steam !  It  gives  not  a  moment's  respite 
to  the  worker,  whose  thoughts  must  never  wander 


138  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

from  her  task.  The  girls  are  pale.  Their  complexions 
without  exception  are  bad. 

We  are  bossed  by  men.  My  boss  is  kind,  and, 
seeing  that  I  am  ambitious,  he  comes  now  and  then 
and  prints  a  few  hundred  bill-heads  for  me.  There 
is  some  complaining  sotto  voce  of  the  other  boss,  who, 
it  appears,  is  a  hard  taskmaster.  Both  are  very 
young,  both  chew  tobacco  and  expectorate  long, 
brown,  wet  lines  of  tobacco  juice  on  to  the  floor. 
While  waiting  for  new  type  I  get  into  conversation 
with  the  boss  of  ill-repute.  He  has  an  honest, 
serious  face ;  his  eyes  are  evidently  more  accustomed 
to  -judging  than  to  trusting  his  fellow  beings.  He  is 
communicative. 

"  Do  you  like  your  job  ?"  he  asks. 

"Yes,  first  rate." 

"  They  don't  pay  enough.  I  give  notice  last  week 
and  got  a  raise.  I  guess  I'll  stay  on  here  until  about 
August." 

"Then  where  are  you  going?" 

"Going  home,"  he  answers.  "I've  been  away 
from  home  for  seven  years.  I  run  away  when  I  was 
thirteen  and  I've  been  knocking  around  ever  since, 
takin'  care  of  myself,  makin'  a  livin'  one  way  or 
another.  My  folks  lives  in  California.  I've  been 
from  coast  to  coast — and  I  tell  you  I'll  be  mighty 
glad  to  get  back." 

"Ever  been  sick?" 

"  Yes,  twice.     It's  no  fun.     No  matter  how  much 


139 

licking  a  boy  gets  he  ought  never  to  leave  home. 
The  first  year  or  so  you  don't  mind  it  so  much,  but 
when  you've  been  among  strangers  two  years,  three 
years,  all  alone,  sick  or  well,  you  begin  to  feel  you 
must  get  back  to  your  own  folks." 

"  Are  you  saving  up  ? "  I  ask. 

He  nods  his  head,  not  free  to  speak  for  tobacco 
juice. 

"I'll  be  able  to  leave  here  in  August,"  he  explains, 
when  he  has  finished  spitting,  "  for  Omaha.  In  three 
months  I  can  save  up  enough  to  get  on  as  far  as 
Salt  Lake,  and  in  another  three  months  I  can  move 
on  to  San  Francisco.  I  tell  you,"  he  adds,  returning 
to  his  work,  "a  person  ought  never  to  leave  home." 
He  had  nine  months  of  work  and  privation  before 
reaching  the  goal  toward  which  he  had  been  yearning 
for  years.  With  what  patience  he  appears  possessed 
compared  to  our  fretfulness  at  the  fast  express  trains, 
which  seem  to  crawl  when  they  carry  us  full  speed 
homeward  toward  those  we  love ! ,  Nine  months, 
two  hundred  and  seventy  days,  ten-hour  working 
days,  to  wait.  He  was  manly.  He  had  the  spirit  of 
adventure ;  his  experience  was  wide  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  men  extended ;  he  had  managed  to  take  care 
of  himself  in  one  way  or  another  for  seven  years,  the 
most  trying  and  decisive  in  a  boy's  life.  He  had  not 
gone  to  the  bad,  evidently,  and  to  his  credit  he  was 
homeward  bound.  His  history  was  something  out 
of  the  ordinary;  yet  beyond  the  circle  where  he 


i4o  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

worked  and  was  considered  a  hard  taskmaster  he 
was  a  nonentity — a  star  in  the  milky  way,  a  star 
whose  faint  rays,  without  individual  brilliancy, 
added  to  the  general  luster. 

The  first  day  I  had  a  touch  of  pride  in  getting 
easily  ahead  of  the  new  girl  who  started  in  when  I 
did.  From  my  machine  I  could  see  only  the  back  of 
her  head ;  it  was  shaking  disapproval  at  every  stroke 
she  made  and  had  to  make  over  again.  She  had  a 
mass  of  untidy  hair  and  a  slouchy  skirt  that  slipped 
out  from  her  belt  in  the  back.  If  not  actually 
stupid,  she  was  slow,  and  the  foreman  and  the  girl 
who  took  turns  teaching  her  exchanged  glances, 
meaning  that  they  were  exhausting  their  patience 
and  would  readily  give  up  the  job.  I  was  pleased  at 
being  included  in  these  glances,  and  had  a  miserable 
moment  of  vanity  at  lunch  time  when  the  old  girls, 
the  habitue's,  came  after  me  to  eat  with  them.  The 
girl  with  the  untidy  hair  and  the  long  skirt  sat  quite 
by  her  self.  Without  unfolding  her  newspaper 
bundle,  she  took  bites  of  things  from  it,  as  though 
she  were  a  little  ashamed  of  her  lunch.  My  moment 
of  vanity  had  passed.  I  went  over  to  her,  not 
knowing  whether  her  appearance  meant  a  slipshod 
nature  or  extreme  poverty.  As  we  were  both  new 
girls,  there  was  no  indiscretion  in  my  direct  question : 

".Like  your  job?" 

I  could  not  understand  what  she  answered,  so  I 
continued :  ' '  Ever  worked  before  ?' ' 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     141 

She  opened  her  hands  and  held  them  out  to  me. 
In  the  palm  of  one  there  was  a  long  scar  that  ran 
from  wrist  to  forefinger.  Two  nails  had  been  worn 
off  below  the  quick  and  were  cracked  through  the 
middle.  The  whole  was  gloved  in  an  iron  callous, 
streaked  with  black. 

"Does  that  look  like  work?"  was  her  response. 
It  was  almost  impossible  to  hear  what  she  said. 
Without  a  palate,  she  forced  the  words  from  her 
mouth  in  a  strange  monotone.  She  was  one  of 
nature's  monstrous  failures.  Her  coarse,  opaque 
skin  covered  a  low  forehead  and  broad,  boneless  nose ; 
her  teeth  were  crumbling  with  disease,  and  into  her 
full  lower  lip  some  sharp  tool  had  driven  a  double 
scar.  She  kept  her  hand  over  her  mouth  when  she 
talked,  and  .except  for  this  movement  of  self- 
consciousness  her  whole  attitude  was  one  of  resigna- 
tion and  humility.  Her  eyes  in  their  dismal 
surroundings  lay  like  clear  pools  in  a  swamp's  midst 
reflecting  blue  sky. 

"What  was  you  doing  to  get  your  hands  like 
that?"  I  asked. 

"Tipping  shoe-laces.  I  had  to  quit,  'cause  they 
cut  the  pay  down.  I  could  do  twenty-two  gross  in 
a  day,  working  until  eight  o'clock,  and  I  didn't  care 
how  hard  I  worked  so  long  as  I  got  good  pay — $9 
a  week.  But  the  employer' d  been  a  workman 
himself,  and  they're  the  worst  kind.  He  cut  me 
down  to  $4  a  week,  so  I  quit." 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 


"Do  you  live  home?" 

"Yes.  I  give  all  I  make  to  my  mother,  and  she 
gives  me  my  clothes  and  board.  Almost  anywhere 
I  can  make  $7  a  week,  and  I  feel  when  I  earn  that 
much  like  I  was  doing  right.  But  it's  hard  to  work 
and  make  nothing.  I'm  slow  to  learn,"  she  smiled 
at  me,  covering  her  mouth  with  her  hand,  "but  I'll 
get  on  to  it  by  and  by  and  go  as  fast  as  any  one  ;  only 
I'm  not  very  strong." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Heart  disease  for  one  thing,  and  then  I'm  so 
nervous.  It's  kind  of  hard  to  have  to  work  when 
you're  not  able.  To-day  I  can  hardly  stand,  my 
head's  aching  so.  They  make  the  poor  work  for  just 
as  little  as  they  can,  don't  they  ?  It's  not  the  work 
I  mind,  but  if  I  can't  give  in  my  seven  a  week  at 
home  I  get  to  worrying." 

Now  and  then  as  she  talked  in  her  inarticulate 
pitiful  voice  the  tears  added  luster  to  her  eyes  as 
her  emotions  welled  up  within  her. 

The  machines  began  to  roar  and  vibrate  again. 
The  noon  recess  was  over.  She  went  back  to  her 
job.  Her  broad,  heavy  hands  began  once  more  to 
serve  a  company  on  whose  moderate  remuneration 
she  depended  for  her  daily  bread.  Her  silhouette 
against  the  window  where  she  stood  was  no  longer 
an  object  for  my  vain  eyes  to  look  upon  with  a  sense 
of  superiority.  I  could  hear  the  melancholy  intona- 
tion of  her  voice,  pronouncing  words  of  courage  over 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     143 

her  disfigured  underlip.  She  was  one  of  nature's 
failures — one  of  God's  triumphs. 

Saturday  night  my  fellow  lodger,  Miss  Arnold,  and 
I  made  an  expedition  to  the  spring  opening  of  a  large 
dry-goods  shop  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Mrs. 
Brown's.  I  felt  rather  humble  in  my  toil-worn 
clothes  to  accompany  the  young  woman,  who  had 
an  appearance  of  prosperity  which  borrowed  money 
alone  can  give.  But  she  encouraged  me,  and  we 
started  together  for  the  principal  street  of  the  quarter 
whose  history  was  told  in  its  show-case  windows. 
Pawnshops  and  undertakers,  bakeries  and  soda- 
water  fountains  were  ranged  side  by  side  on  this  high- 
way, as  the  necessity  for  them  is  ranged  with 
incongruous  proximity  in  the  existence  of  those  who 
live  pell-mell  in  moral  and  material  disorder  after 
the  manner  of  the  poor.  There  was  even  a  wedding 
coach  in  the  back  of  the  corner  undertaker's  estab- 
lishment, and  in  the  front  window  a  coffin,  small  and 
white,  as  though  de.ath  itself  were  more  attractive 
in  the  young,  as  though  the  little  people  of  the 
quarter  were  nearer  Heaven  and  more  suggestive  of 
angels  than  their  life-worn  elders.  The  spotless  tiny 
coffin  with  its  fringe  and  satin  tufting  had  its  share 
of  the  ideal,  mysterious,  unused  and  costly;  in  the 
same  store  with  the  wedding  coach,  it  suggested 
festivity:  a  reunion  to  celebrate  with  tears  a  small 
pilgrim's  right  to  sleep  at  last  undisturbed. 

The  silver  rays  of  the  street  lamps  mingled  with 


144  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

the  yellow  light  of  the  shop  windows,  and  on  the 
sidewalk  there  was  a  cosmopolitan  public.  Groups 
of  Italian  women  crooned  to  each  other  in  their  soft 
voices  over  the  bargains  for  babies  displayed  at  the 
spring  opening;  factory  girls  compared  notes, 
chattered,  calculated,  tried  to  resist,  and  ended  by 
an  extravagant  choice ;  the  German  women  looked 
and  priced  and  bought  nothing;  the  Hungarians  had 
evidently  spent  their  money  on  arriving.  From  the 
store  window  wax  figures  of  the  ideal  woman,  clad  in 
latest  Parisian  garb,  with  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes, 
gazed  down  benignly  into  the  faces  uplifted  with 
envy  and  admiration.  Did  she  not  plainly  say  to 
them  "For  $17  you  can  look  as  I  do"  ? 

The  store  was  apparently  flourishing,  and  except 
for  such  few  useful  articles  as  stockings  and  shirts 
it  was  stocked  with  trash.  Patronized  entirely  by 
labouring  men  and  women,  it  was  an  indication  to 
their  needs.  Here,  for  example,  was  a  stand  hung 
with  silk  dress  skirts,  trimmed  with  lace  and  velvet. 
They  were  made  after  models  of  expensive  dress- 
makers and  were  attempts  at  the  sort  of  thing  a 
Mme.  de  Rothschild  might  wear  at  the  Grand  Prix 
de  Paris. 

Varying  from  $11  to  $20,  there  was  not  one  of  the 
skirts  made  of  material  sufficiently  solid  to  wear  for 
more  than  a  few  Sunday  outings.  On  another 
counter  there  were  hats  with  extravagant  garlands 
of  flowers,  exaggerated  bows  and  plumes,  wraps 


THE    HEAR    OF    A    CHICAGO    TEXEMEN" 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     145 

with  ruffles  of  lace  and  long  pendant  bows;  silk 
boleros;  a  choice  of  things  never  meant  to  be 
imitated  in  cheap  quality. 

I  watched  the  customers  trying  on.  Possessed 
of  grace  and  charm  in  their  native  costumes,  hat  less, 
with  gay-coloured  shawls  on  their  shoulders,  the 
Italian  women,  as  soon  as  they  donned  the  tawdry 
garb  of  the  luxury-loving  labourer,  were  common 
like  the  rest.  In  becoming  prosperous  Americans, 
animated  by  the  desire  for  material  possession  which 
is  the  strength  and  the  weakness  of  our  countrymen, 
they  lost  the  character  that  pleases  us,  the  beauty 
we  must  go  abroad  to  find. 

Miss  Arnold  priced  everything,  compared  quality 
and  make  with  Jacksonville  productions,  and  decided 
to  buy  nothing,  but  in  refusing  to  buy  she  ha'd  an  air 
of  opulence  and  taste  hard  to  please  which  surpassed 
the  effect  any  purchase  could  have  made. 

Sunday  morning  Mrs.  Brown  asked  me  to  join  her 
and  Miss  Arnold  for  breakfast  They  were  both  in 
slippers  and  dressing-gowns.  We  boiled  the  coffee 
and  set  the  table  with  doughnuts  and  sweet  cakes, 
which  Miss  Arnold  kept  in  a  paper  bag  in  her  room. 

<:I  hardly  ever  eat,  except  between  meals,"  she 
explained.  ' '  A  nibble  of  cake  or  candy  is  as  much  as  I 
can  manage,  my  digestion  is  so  poor." 

"Ever  since  Brown  died,"  the  widow  responded, 
"  I've  had  my  meals  just  the  same  as  though  he  were 
here.  All  I  want,"  she  went  on,  as  we  seated  our- 


146  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

selves  and  exchanged  courtesies  in  passing  the  bread 
and  butter,  "all  I  want  is  somebody  to  be  kind  to 
me.  I've  got  a  young  niece  that  I've  tried  to  have 
with  me.  I  wrote  to  her  and  says:  'Your  auntie's 
heart's  just  crying  out  for  you  F  And  I  told  her  I'd 
leave  her  all  I've  got.  But  she  said  she  didn't  feel 
like  she  could  come." 

As  soon  as  breakfast  is  over  the  mundane 
member  of  the  household  starts  off  on  a  day's  round 
of  visits.  When  the  screen  door  has  shut  upon 
her  slender  silhouette,  Mrs.  Brown  settles  down 
for  a  chat.  She  takes  out  the  brush  and  comb, 
unbraids  her  silver  locks  and  arranges  them  while 
she  talks. 

"Miss  Arnold's  always  on  the  go;  she's  awful 
nervous.  These  society  people  aren't  happy.  Life's 
not  all  pleasure  for  them.  You  can  be  sure  they 
have  their  ups  and  downs  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"I  guess  that's  likely,"  is  my  response. 

"  They  don't  tell  the  truth  always,  in  the  first  place. 
They  say  there's  got  to  be  deceit  in  society,  and  that 
these  stylish  people  pretend  all  sorts  of  things.  Well, 
then,  all  I  say  is,"  and  she  pricks  the  comb  into  the 
brush  with  emphasis,  "all  I  say  is,  you  better  keep 
out  of  society." 

She  had  twisted  her  gray  braids  into  a  coil  at  the 
back  of  her  head,  and  dish-washing  is  now  the  order 
of  the  day.  As  we  splash  and  wipe,  Mrs.  Brown 
looks  at  me  rather  closely.  She  is  getting  ready  to 


MAKING  CLOTHING   IN  CHICAGO     147 

speak.  I  can  feel  this  by  a  preliminary  rattle  of  her 
teeth. 

"You're  a  new  girl  here,"  she  begins;  "you  ain't 
been  long  in  Chicago.  I  just  thought  I'd  tell  you 
about  a  girl  who  was  workin'  here  in  the  General 
Electric  factory.  She  was  sixteen — a  real  nice- 
lookin'  girl  from  the  South.  She  left  her  mother  and 
come  up  here  alone.  It  wasn't  long  before  she  got  to 
foolin'  round  with  one  of  the  young  men  over  to  the 
factory.  They  were  both  young;  they  didn't  mean 
no  harm;  but  one  day  she  come  an'  told  me,  cryin' 
like  anythin',  that  she  was  in  trouble,  and  her  young 
man  had  slipped  off  up  to  Michigan." 

Here  Mrs.  Brown  stopped  to  see  if  I  was  interested, 
and  as  I  responded  with  a  heartfelt  "Oh,  my !"  she 
went  on : 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  have  seen  that  girl's  sufferin', 
her  loneliness  for  her  mother.  I'd  come  in  her  room 
sometimes  at  midnight — the  very  room  you  have 
now — and  find  her  on  the  floor,  weepin'  her  heart 
out.  I  want  to  tell  you  never  to  get  discouraged. 
Just  you  listen  to  what  happened.  The  gentleman 
from  the  factory  got  a  sheriff  and  they  started  up 
north  after  the  young  man,  determined  to  get  him 
by  force  if  they  couldn't  by  kindness.  Well,  they 
found  him  and  they  brought  him  back ;  he  was  willin' 
to  come,  and  they  got  everythin'  fixed  up  for  the 
weddin'  without  tellin'  her  a  thing  about  it,  and  one 
day  she  was  sittin'  right  there,"  she  pointed  to  the 


i48  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

rocking  chair  in  the  front  parlour  window,  "when 
he  come  in.  He  was  carryin'  a  big  bunch  of  cream 
roses,  tied  with  long  white  ribbons.  He  offered  'em 
to  her,  but  she  wouldn't  look  at  them  nor  at  him. 
After  awhile  they  went  together  into  her  room  and 
talked  for  half  an  hour,  and  when  they  come  back 
she  had  consented  to  marry  him.  He  was  real  kind. 
He  kept  askin'  me  if  she  had  cried  much  and  thankin* 
me  for  takin'  care  of  her.  They  were  married,  and 
when  the  weddin'  was  over  she  didn't  want  to  stay 
with  him.  She  said  she  wanted  her  mother,  but  we 
talked  to  her  and  told  her  what  was  right,  and  things 
was  fixed  up  between  them." 

She  had  taken  down  from  its  hook  in  the  corner 
sunlight  the  canary  bird  and  his  cage.  She  put 
them  on  the  table  and  prepared  to  give  the  bird  his 
bath  and  fresh  seed. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  drawing  up  a  chair,  "that's 
what  good  employers  will  do  for  you.  If  you're 
working  in  a  good  place  they'll  do  right  by  you, 
and  it  don't  pay  to  get  down-hearted." 

I  thanked  her  and  showed  the  interest  I  truly  felt 
in  the  story.  Evidently  I  must  account  for  my 
Sundays  I  It  was  with  the  bird  now  that  Mrs.  Brown 
continued  her  conversation:  He  was  a  Rip  Van 
Winkle  in  plumage.  His  claws  trailed  over  the  sand 
of  the  cage.  Except  when  Mrs.  Brown  had  a  lodger 
or  two  with  her,  the  bird  was  the  only  living  thing 
in  her  part  of  the  tenement. 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     149 

"I've  had  him  twenty-five  years,"  she  said  to 
me.  "Brown  give  him  to  me.  I  guess  I'd  miss  him 
if  he  died."  And  presently  she  repeated  again: 
"I  don't  believe  I  even  know  how  much  I'd  miss 
him." 

On  the  last  evening  of  my  tenement  residence  I 
was  sitting  in  a  restaurant  of  the  quarter,  having 
played  truant  from  Mrs.  Wood's,  whose  Friday 
fish  dinner  had  poisoned  me.  My  hands  had  been 
inflamed  and  irritated  in  consequence,  and  I  was 
now  intent  upon  a  good  clean  supper  earned  by 
ten  hours'  work.  My  back  was  turned  to  the  door, 
which  I  knew  must  be  open,  as  I  felt  a  cold  wind. 
The  lake  brought  capricious  changes  of  the  tempera- 
ture: the  thermometer  had  fallen  the  night  before 
from  seventy  to  thirty.  I  turned  to  see  who  the 
newcomer  might  be.  The  sight  of  him  set  my 
heart  beating  faster.  The  restaurant  keeper  was 
questioning  the  man  to  find  out  who  he  was.  .  .  . 
He  was  evidently  nobody — a  fragment  of  anony- 
mous humanity  lashed  into  debris  upon  the  edge  of  a 
city's  vortex ;  a  remnant  of  flesh  and  bones  for  human 
appetites  to  feed  on;  a  battleground  of  disease  and 
vice;  a  beggar  animated  by  instinct  to  get  from 
others  what  he  could  no  longer  earn  for  himself;  the 
type  par  excellence  who  has  worn  out  charity  organi- 
zations ;  the  poor  wreck  of  a  soul  that  would  create 
pity  if  there  were  none  of  it  left  in  the  world.  He 
was  asking  for  food.  The  proprietor  gave  him  the 


address  of  a  free  lodging-house  and  turned  him 
away.  He  pulled  his  cap  over  his  head;  the  door 
opened  and  closed,  letting  in  a  fresh  gale  of  icy  air. 
The  man  was  gone.  I  turned  back  to  my  supper. 
Scientific  philanthropists  would  have  means  of 
proving  that  such  men  are  alone  to  blame  for 
their  condition ;  that  this  one  was  in  all  probability 
a  drunkard,  and  that  it  would  be  useless,  worse 
than  useless,  to  help  him.  But  he  was  cold  and 
hungry  and  penniless,  and  I  knew  it.  I  went 
as  swiftly  as  I  could  to  overtake  him.  He  had 
not  traveled  far,  lurching  along  at  a  snail's  pace, 
and  he  was  startled  when  I  came  up  to  him.  One 
of  his  legs  was  longer  than  the  other;  it  had  been 
crushed  in  an  accident.  They  were  not  pairs,  his 
legs,  and  neither  were  his  eyes  pairs;  one  was  big 
and  blind,  with  a  fixed  pupil,  and  the  other  showed 
all  his  feelings.  Across  his  nose  there  was  a  scar,  a 
heavy  scar,  pale  like  the  rest  of  his  face.  He  was 
small  and  had  sandy  hair.  The  directors  of  charity 
bureaus  could  have  detected  perhaps  a  faint  resem- 
blance to  the  odour  of  liquor  as  he  breathed  a  halo 
of  frosty  air  over  his  scraggly  red  beard. 

Through  the  weather-beaten  coat  pinned  over  it 
his  bare  chest  was  visible. 

"It's  a  cold  night !"  I  began.  "Are  you  out  of  a 
job?" 

With  his  wistful  eye  he  gave  me  a  kind  glance. 

"I've  been  sick.     There's  a  sharp  pain  right  in 


MAKING   CLOTHING   IN   CHICAGO     151 

through  here."  He  showed  me  a  spot  under 
his  arm.  "They  thought  at  the  hospital  that  I 
'ad  consumption.  "But,"  his  face  brightened,  "I 
haven't  got  it."  He  showed  in  his  smile  the 
life-warrant  that  kept  him  from  suicide.  He  wanted 
to  live. 

"Where  did  you  sleep  last  night?"  I  asked.  "It 
was  a  cold  night." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  responded  in  his 
strong  Scotch  accent,  "I  slept  in  a  wagon." 

I  proposed  that  we  do  some  shopping  together; 
he  looked  at  me  gratefully  and  limped  along  to  a. 
cheap  clothing  store,  kept  by  an  Italian.  The 
warmth  within  was  agreeable ;  there  was  a  display 
of  garments  hung  across  the  ceiling  under  the  gas- 
light. My  companion  waited,  leaning  against  the 
glass  counter,  while  I  priced  the  flannel  shirts.  To 
be  sure,  my  own  costume  promised  little  bounty. 
The  price  of  the  shirt  was  seventy-five  cents,  and  as 
soon  as  he  heard  this  the  poor  man  said : 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  spend  as  much  as  that." 

Looking  first  at  the  pauper,  then  at  me,  the  Italian 
leaned  over  and  whispered  to  me,  "I  think  I  under- 
stand. You  can  have  the  shirt  for  sixty,  and  I'll 
put  in  a  pair  of  socks,  too." 

Thus  we  had  become  a  fraternity;  all  were 
poor,  the  stronger  woe  helping  the  weaker.  .  .  . 
When  his  toilet  was  complete  the  poor  man  looked 
half  a  head  taller. 


152  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

"Shall  I  wrap  up  your  old  cap  for  you  ?"  the  sales- 
man asked,  and  the  other  laughed  a  broken,  long- 
disused  laugh. 

"I  guess  I  won't  need  it  any  more,"  he  said,  turning 
to  me. 

His  face  had  changed  like  the  children's  valen- 
tines that  grow  at  a  touch  from  a  blank  card  to  a 
glimpse  of  paradise. 

Once  in  the  street  again  we  shook  hands.  I  was 
going  back  to  my  supper.  He  was  going,  the  charity 
directors  would  say,  to  pawn  his  shirt  and  coat. 

The  man  had  evidently  not  more  than  a  few 
months  to  live ;  I  was  leaving  Chicago  the  following 
day.  We  would  undoubtedly  never  meet  again. 

As  his  bony  hand  lay  in  mine,  his  eyes  looked 
straight  at  me.  "Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  his  last 
words  were  these : 

"I'll  stand  by  you." 

It  was  a  pledge  of  fraternity  at  parting.  There 
was  no  material  substance  to  promise.  I  took  it  to 
mean  that  he  would  stand  by  any  generous  impulses 
I  might  have;  that  he  would  be,  as  it  were,  a 
patron  of  spontaneous  as  opposed  to  organized 
charity;  a  patron  of  those  who  are  never  too 
poor  to  give  to  some  one  poorer ;  of  those  who  have 
no  scientific  reasons  for  giving,  no  statistics,  only 
compassion  and  pity ;  of  those  who  want  to  aid  not 
only  the  promising  but  the  hopeless  cases;  of  those 
whose  charity  is  tolerant  and  maternal,  patient  with 


MAKING  CLOTHING  IN  CHICAGO     153 

the  helpless,  prepared  for  disappointments;  not 
looking  for  results,  ever  ready  to  begin  again,  so 
long  as  the  paradox  of  suffering  and  inability  are 
linked  together  in  humanity. 


THE   MEANING  OF   IT  ALL 


BEFORE  concluding  the  recital  of  my  experiences 
as  a  working  girl,  I  want  to  sum  up  the  general 
conclusions  at  which  I  arrived  and  to  trace  in  a  few 
words  the  history  of  my  impressions  What,  first 
of  all,  was  my  purpose  in  going  to  live  and  work 
among  the  American  factory  hands?  It  was  not 
to  gratify  simple  curiosity ;  it  was  not  to  get  material 
for  a  novel;  it  was  not  to  pave  the  way  for  new 
philanthropic  associations;  it  was  not  to  obtain 
crude  data,  such  as  fill  the  reports  of  labour  com- 
missioners. My  purpose  was  to  help  the  working 
girl — to  help  her  mentally,  morally,  physically.  I 
considered  this  purpose  visionary  and  unpractical, 
I  considered  it  pretentious  even,  and  I  cannot  say 
that  I  had  any  hope  of  accomplishing  it.  What  did 
I  mean  by  help?  Did  I  mean  a  superficial  remedy, 
a  palliative  ?  A  variety  of  such  remedies  occurred 
to  me  as  I  worked,  and  I  have  offered  them  gladly 
for  the  possible  aid  of  charitable  people  who  have 
time  and  money  to  carry  temporary  relief  to  the 
poor.  It  was  not  relief  of  this  kind  that  I  meant  by 
help.  I  meant  an  amelioration  in  natural  conditions. 

157 


158  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

I  was  not  hopeful  of  discovering  any  plan  to  bring 
about  this  amelioration,  because  I  believed  that  the 
'conditions,  deplorable  as  they  appear  to  us,  of  the 
working  poor,  were  natural,  the  outcome  of  laws 
which  it  is  useless  to  resist.  I  adopted  the  only 
method  possible  for  putting  my  belief  to  the  test. 
I  did  what  had  never  been  done.  I  was  a  skeptic 
and  something  of  a  sentimentalist  when  I  started. 
I  have  become  convinced,  as  I  worked,  that  certain 
of  the  most  unfortunate  conditions  are  not  natural, 
and  that  they  can  therefore  be  corrected.  It  is  with 
hope  for  the  material  betterment  of  the  bread- 
winning  woman,  for  the  moral  advancement  of  the 
semi-breadwinner  and  the  esthetic  improvement  of 
the  country,  that  I  submit  what  seems  a  rational 
plan. 

For  the  first  three  weeks  of  my  life  as  a  factory 
girl  I  saw  among  my  companions  only  one  vast  class 
of  slaves,  miserable  drudges,  doomed  to  dirt,  ugliness 
and  overwork  from  birth  until  death.  My  own 
physical  sufferings  were  acute.  My  heart  was  torn 
with  pity.  I  revolted  against  a  society  whose  mate- 
rial demands  were  satisfied  at  the  cost  of  minds 
and  bodies.  Labour  appeared  in  the  guise  of  a 
monster  feeding  itself  on  human  lives.  To  every 
new  impression  I  responded  with  indiscriminate 
compassion.  It  is  impossible  for  the  imagination 
to  sustain  for  more  than  a  moment  at  a  time  the 
terrible  fatigue  which  a  new  hand  like  myself  is 


THE   MEANING  OF   IT  ALL  159 

obliged  to  endure  day  after  day;  the  disgust  at 
foul  smells,  the  revulsion  at  miserable  food  soaked 
in  grease,  the  misery  of  a  straw  mattress,  a  sheetless 
bed  with  blankets  whose  acrid  odour  is  stifling. 
The  mind  cannot  grasp  what  it  means  to  be  frantic 
with  pain  in  the  shoulders  and  back  before  nine  in 
the  morning,  and  to  watch  the  clock  creep  around 
to  six  before  one  has  a  right  to  drop  into  the  chair 
that  has  stood  near  one  all  day  long.  Yet  it  is 
not  until  the  system  has  become  at  least  in  a  great 
measure  used  to  such  physical  effort  that  one  can 
judge  without  bias.  When  I  had  grown  so  accus- 
tomed to  the  work  that  I  was  equal  to  a  long  walk 
after  ten  hours  in  the  factory;  when  I  had  become 
so  saturated  with  the  tenement  smell  that  I  no  longer 
noticed  it;  when  any  bed  seemed  good  enough  for 
the  healthy  sleep  of  a  working  girl,  and  any  food 
good  enough  to  satisfy  a  hungry  stomach,  then  and 
then  only  I  began  to  see  that  in  the  great  unknown 
class  there  were  a  multitude  of  classes  which,  aside 
from  the  ugliness  of  their  esthetic  surroundings  and 
the  intellectual  inactivity  which  the  nature  of 
their  occupation  imposes,  are  not  all  to  be  pitied: 
they  are  a  collection  of  human  individuals  with  like 
capacities  to  our  own.  The  surroundings  into  which 
they  are  born  furnish  little  chance  for  them  to  develop 
their  minds  and  their  tastes,  but  their  souls  suffer 
nothing  from  working  in  squalour  and  sordidness. 
Certain  acts  of  impulsive  generosity,  of  disinterested 


160  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

kindness,  of  tender  sacrifice,  of  loyalty  and  fortitude 
shone  out  in  the  poverty-stricken  wretches  I  met 
on  my  way,  as  the  sun  shines  glorious  in  iri- 
descence on  the  rubbish  heap  that  goes  to  fertilize 
some  rich  man's  fields. 

My  observations  were  confined  chiefly  to  the 
women.  Two  things  ,  however,  regarding  the  men  I 
noticed  as  fixed  rules.  They  were  all  breadwinners ; 
they  worked  because  they  needed  the  money  to  live ; 
they  supported  entirely  the  woman,  wife  or  mother, 
of  the  household  who  did  not  work.  In  many  cases 
they  contributed  to  the  support  of  even  the  wage- 
earning  females  of  the  family:  the  woman  who 
does  not  work  when  she  does  not  need  to  work  is 
provided  for. 

The  women  were  divided  into  two  general 
classes:  Those  who  worked  because  they  needed 
to  earn  their  living,  and  those  who  came  to  the 
factories  to  be  more  independent  than  at  home, 
to  exercise  their  coquetry  and  amuse  themselves, 
to  make  pin  money  for  luxuries.  The  men  formed 
a  united  class.  They  had  a  purpose  in  common. 
The  women  were  in  a  class  with  boys  and  with 
children.  They  had  nothing  in  common  but  their 
physical  inferiority  to  man.  The  children  were 
working  from  necessity,  the  boys  were  working 
from  necessity;  the  only  industrial  unit  compli- 
cating the  problem  were  the  girls  who  worked 
without  being  obliged  to — the  girls  who  had  "all  the 


money  they  needed,  but  not  all  the  money  they 
wanted."  To  them  the  question  of  wages  was  not 
vital.  They  could  afford  to  accept  what  the  bread- 
winner found  insufficient.  They  were  better  fed, 
better  equipped  than  the  self-supporting  hand  ; 
they  were  independent  about  staying  away  from 
the  factory  when  they  were  tired  or  ill,  and  they 
alone  determined  the  reputation  for  irregularity  in 
which  the  breadwinners  were  included. 

Here,  then,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  the  first  chance 
to  offer  help. 

The  self-supporting  woman  should  be  in  competi- 
tion only  with  other  self-supporting  industrial  units. 
The  problem  for  her  class  will  settle  itself,  according 
to  just  and  natural  laws,  when  the  purpose  of  this 
class  is  equally  vital  to  all  concerned.  Relief,  it 
seemed  to  me,  could  be  brought  to  the  breadwinner 
by  separating  from  her  the  girl  who  works  for 
luxuries. 

How  could  this  be  done? 

There  is,  I  believe,  a  way  in  which  it  can  be 
accomplished  naturally.  The  •  non-self-supporting 
girls  must  be  attracted  into  some  field  of  work  which 
requires  instruction  and  an  especial  training,  which 
pays  them  as  well  while  calling  into  play  higher 
faculties  than  the  brutalizing  machine  labour.  This 
field  of  work  is  industrial  art:  lace-making,  hand- 
weaving,  the  fabrication  of  tissues  and  embroideries, 
gold-smithery,  bookbinding,  rug-weaving,  wood- 


i62  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

carving  and  inlaying,  all  the  branches  of  industrial 
art  which  could  be  executed  by  woman  in  her  home, 
all  the  manual  labour  which  does  not  require  physical 
strength,  which  would  not  place  the  woman,  there- 
fore, as  an  inferior  in  competition  with  man,  but 
would  call  forth  her  taste  and  skill,  her  training  and 
individuality,  at  the  same  time  being  consistent 
with  her  destiny  as  a  woman. 

The  American  factory  girl  has  endless  ambition. 
She  has  a  hunger  for  knowledge,  for  oppor- 
tunities to  better  herself,  to  get  on  in  the  world, 
to  improve.  There  is  ample  material  in  the 
factories  as  they  exist  for  forming  a  new,  higher, 
superior  class  of  industrial  art  labourers.  There  is  a 
great  work  to  be  accomplished  by  those  who  are 
willing  to  give  their  time  and  their  money  to  lifting 
the  non-breadwinners  from  the  slavish,  brutalizing 
machines  at  which  they  work,  ignorant  of  any- 
thing better,  and  placing  them  by  education,  by 
cultivation,  in  positions  of  comparative  freedom — 
freedom  of  thought,  taste  and  personality. 

Classes  in  industrial  art  already  exist  at  the 
Simmons  School  in  Boston  and  Columbia  University 
in  New  York.  New  classes  should  be  formed. 
Individual  enterprise  should  start  the  ball  and  keep 
it  rolling  until  it  is  large  enough  to  be  held  in 
Governmental  hands.  It  is  not  sufficient  merely 
to  form  classes.  The  right  sort  of  pupils  should  be 
attracted.  There  is  not  a  factory  which  would  not 


THE   MEANING  OF   IT  ALL  163 

furnish  some  material.  The  recompense  for  appren- 
ticeship would  be  the  social  and  intellectual  advance- 
ment dear  to  every  true  American's  heart.  The 
question  of  wages  would  be  self-regulating.  At  Hull 
House,  Chicago,  in  the  Industrial  Art  School  it  has 
been  proved  that,  provided  the  models  be  simple  in 
proportion  to  the  ability  of  the  artisan,  the  work 
can  be  sold  as  fast  as  it  is  turned  out.  The  public 
is  ready  to  buy  the  produce  of  hand-workers.  The 
girls  I  speak  of  are  fit  for  advancement.  It  is  not  a 
plan  of  charity,  but  one  to  ameliorate  natural 
conditions. 

Who  will  act  as  mediator? 

I  make  an  appeal  to  all  those  whose  interests 
and  leisure  permit  them  to  help  in  this  double 
emancipation  of  the  woman  who  toils  for  bread 
and  the  girl  who  works  for  luxuries. 

With  the  rest  of  the  world  I  have  wondered  how 
the  vast  complement  of  the  labouring  mass  live. 
I  have  imagined ;  never  until  now  have  I  felt.  The 
perfection  of  sympathy,  the  real  touching  point  is  to 
experience  with  our  fellows  like  sensations. 


THE  WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 
CHAPTER  VI— INTRODUCTORY 

BY 

MARIE  VAN  VORST 


CHAPTER  VI 
INTRODUCTORY 

THERE  are  no  words  too  noble  to  extol  the  cour- 
age of  mankind  in  its  brave,  uncomplaining  struggle 
for  existence.  Idealism  and  estheticism  have 
always  had  much  to  say  in  praise  of  the  "beauty 
of  toil."  Carlyle  has  honoured  it  as  a  cult;  epics 
have  been  written  in  its  glory.  When  one  has 
turned  to  and  performed,  day  in  and  day  out,  this 
labour  from  ten  to  thirteen  hours  out  of  the 
twenty-four,  with  Sundays  and  legal  holidays  as 
the  sole  respite — to  find  at  the  month's  end  that 
the  only  possible  economics  are  pleasures — one  is 
at  least  better  fitted  to  comprehend  the  standpoint 
of  the  worker;  and  one  realizes  that  part  of  the 
universe  is  pursuing  means  to  sustain  an  existence 
which,  by  reason  of  its  hardship,  they  perforce  cling 
to  with  indifference.  I  laid  aside  for  a  time  every- 
thing pertaining  to  the  class  in  which  I  was  born 
and  bred  and  became  an  American  working- woman. 
I  intended,  in  as  far  as  was  possible,  to  live  as  she 
lived,  work  as  she  worked.  In  thus  approaching 
her  I  believed  that  I  could  share  her  ambitions, 
her  pleasures,  her  privations. 

167 


i68  INTRODUCTORY 

Working  by  her  side  day  after  day,  I  hoped  to 
be  a  mirror  that  should  reflect  the  woman  who 
toils,  and  later,  when  once  again  in  my  proper 
sphere  of  life,  to  be  her  expositor  in  an  humble 
way — to  be  a  mouthpiece  for  her  to  those  who 
know  little  of  the  realities  of  everlasting  labour. 

I  have  in  the  following  pages  attempted  to  solve 
no  problem — I  have  advanced  no  sociologic  schemes. 
Conclusions  must  be  drawn  by  those  who  read  the 
simple,  faithful  description  of  the  woman  who  toils 
as  I  saw  her,  as  I  worked  beside  her,  grew  to 
understand  in  a  measure  her  point  of  view  and  to 
sympathize  with  her  struggle. 


A  MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT  LYNN 


CHAPTER  VII 
A  MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT  LYNN 

"  THOSE  who  work  neither  with  their  brains  nor 
their  hands  are  a  menace  to  the  public  safety." — 
Roosevelt. 

Well  and  good !  In  the  great  mobs  and  riots  of 
history,  what  class  is  it  which  forms  the  brawn  and 
muscle  and  sinew  of  the  disturbance?  The  work- 
men and  workwomen  in  whom  discontent  has  bred 
the  disease  of  riot,  the  abnormality,  the  abortion 
known  as  Anarchy,  Socialism.  The  hem  of  the 
uprising  is  composed  of  idlers  and  loungers,  indeed, 
but  it  is  the  labourer's  head  upon  which  the  red  cap 
of  protest  is  seen  above  the  vortex  of  the  crowd. 

That  those  who  labour  with  their  hands  may  have 
no  cause  to  menace  society,  those  who  labour  with  their 
brains  shall  strive  to  encompass. 

Evils  in  any  system  American  progress  is  sure  to 
cure.  Shops  such  as  the  Plant  shoe  factory  in 
Boston,  with  its  eight-hour  labour',  ample  provision 
for  escape  in  case  of  fire,  its  model  ventilating, 
lavish  employment  of  new  machinery — tells  on  the 
great  manufacturing  world. 

171 


172  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

Reason,  human  sympathy,  throughout  history 
have  been  enemies  to  slavery  or  its  likeness: 
reason  and  sympathy  suggest  that  time  and  place 
be  given  for  the  operative  man  and  woman  to  rest, 
to  benefit  by  physical  culture,  that  the  bowed 
figures  might  uplift  the  flabby  muscles.  Time 
is  securely  past  when  the  manufacturers'  greed 
may  sweat  the  labourers'  souls  through  the 
bodies'  pores  in  order  that  more  stuff  may  be  turned 
out  at  cheaper  cost. 

The  people  through  social  corporations,  through 
labour  unions,  have  made  their  demands  for  shorter 
hours  and  better  pay. 

LYNN 

Luxuries  to  me  are  what  necessities  are  to  another. 
A  boot  too  heavy,  a  dress  ill-hung,  a  stocking  too 
thick,  are  annoyances  which  to  the  self-indulgent 
woman  of  the  world  are  absolute  discomforts.  To 
o'mit  the  daily  bath  is  a  little  less  than  a  crime  in  the 
calendar;  an  odour  bordering  on  the  foul  creates 
nausea  to  nostrils  ultra-refined;  undue  noises  are 
nerve  exhausting.  If  any  three  things  are  more 
unendurable  to  me  than  others,  they  are  noises,  bad 
smells  and  close  air. 

I  am  in  no  wise  unique,  but  represent  a  class  as  real 
as  the  other  class  whose  sweat,  bone  and  fiber  make 
up  a  vast  human  machine  turning  out  necessities 
and  luxuries  for  the  market. 


A    DELICATE    TYPE    OF    BEAUTY 
At  work  in  a  Lynn  shoe  factory 


ONE    OF    THE    SWELLS    OF    THE    FACTORY 
A  very  expert  "  vamper,"  an  Irish  girl, earning  from  Si  o  to  Si  4  a  week 


A  MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT  LYNN      173 

The  clothes  I  laid  aside  on  December  18,  1901, 
were  as  follows: 

Hat $  40 

Sealskin  coat   .....  200 

Black  cloth  dress          .         .         .         .  1 50 

Silk  underskirt         .         .         .     •    .  25 

Kid  gloves  .         .         .         .         .         .  2 

Underwear 30 

$447 

The  clothes  I  put  on  were  as  follows : 

Small  felt  hat $  .25 

Woolen  gloves .         .         .         .         .  .25 

Flannel  shirt-waist       .         .         .         .1.95 

Gray  serge  coat         ....  3.00 

Black  skirt  ......  2.00 

Underwear       .....  i.oo 

Tippet i.oo 

$9-45 


When  I  outlined  to  my  friends  my  scheme  of 
presenting  myself  for  work  in  a  strange  towi  with 
no.  introduction,  however  humble,  and  no  friends 
to  back  me,  I  was  assured  that  the  chances  were 
that  I  would  in  the  end  get  nothing.  I  was  told 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  disguise  my  class, 
my  speech;  that  I  would  be  suspected,  arouse 
curiosity  and  mistrust. 

One  bitter  December  morning  in  1901  I  left 
Boston  for  Lynn,  Mass.  The  route  of  my  train 
ran  close  to  marshes;  frozen  hard  ice  many  feet 


174  THE   WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

thick  covered  the  rocks  and  hillocks  of  earth,  and 
on  the  dazzling  winter  scene  the  sun  shone  bril- 
liantly. 

No  sooner  had  I  taken  my  place  in  my  plain  attire 
than  my  former,  personality  slipped  from  me  as 
absolutely  as  did  the  garments  I  had  discarded.  I 
was  Bell  Ballard.  People  from  whose  contact  I  had 
hitherto  pulled  my  skirts  away  became  my  compan- 
ions as  I  took  my  place  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
the  crowd  of  breadwinners. 

Lynn  in  winter  is  ugly.  The  very  town  itself 
seemed  numbed  and  blue  in  the  intense  cold  well 
below  zero.  Even  the  Christmas-time  greens  in 
the  streets  and  holly  in  the  store  windows  could 
not  impart  festivity  to  this  city  of  workers.  The 
thoroughfares  are  trolley  lined,  of  course,  and  a 
little  beyond  the  town's  centre  is  a  common,  a 
white  wooden  church  stamping  the  place  New 
England. 

Lynn  is  made  up  of  factories — great  masses  of 
ugliness,  red  brick,  many-windowed  buildings.  The 
General  Electric  has  a  concern  in  this  town,  but  the 
industry  is  chiefly  the  making  of  shoes.  The  shoe 
trade  in  our  country  is  one  of  the  highest  paying 
manufactures,  and  in  it  there  are  more  women 
employed  than  in  any  other  trade.  Lynn's  popula- 
tion is  70,000;  of  these  10,000  work  in  shoe-shops. 

The  night  must  not  find  me  homeless,  houseless. 
I  went  first  to  a  directory  and  found  the  address  of 


A  MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT  LYNN      175 

the  Young  Women's  Christian  Association :  a  room 
upstairs  in  a  building  on  one  of  the  principal  streets. 
Here  two  women  faced  me  as  I  made  my  appeal, 
and  I  saw  at  once  displayed  the  sentiments  of 
kindness  thenceforth  to  greet  me  throughout  my 
first  experience— qualities  of  exquisite  sympathy, 
rare  hospitality  and  human  interest. 

"  I  am  looking  for  work.  I  want  to  get  a  room  in 
a  safe  place  for  the  night." 

I  had  not  for  a  moment  supposed  that  anything 
in  my  attire  of  simple  decorous  work-clothes  could 
awaken  pity.  Yet  pity  it  was  and  nothing  less  in  the 
older  woman's  face. 

"Work  in  the  shops?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

The  simple  fact  that  I  was  undoubtedly  to  make 
my  own  living  and  my  own  way  in  the  hard  hand- 
to-hand  struggle  in  the  shops  aroused  her  sympathy. 

She  said  earnestly:  "You  must  not  go  anywhere 
to  sleep  that  you  don't  know  about,  child." 

She  wrote  an  address  for  me  on  a  slip  of  paper. 

" Go  there;  I  know  the  woman.  If  she  can't  take 
you,  why,  come  back  here.  I'll  take  you  to  my  own 
house.  I  won't  have  you  sleep  in  a  strange  town  just 
anywheres!  You  might  get  into  trouble." 

She  was  not  a  matron ;  she  was  not  even  one  of  the 
staff  of  managers  or  directors.  She  was  only  a 
woman  who  had  come  in  to  ask  some  question, 
receive  some  information;  and  thus  in  marvelous 


176  ,THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

friendliness  she  turned  and  outstretched  her  hand — 
I  was  a  stranger  and  this  was  her  welcome. 

I  had  proved  a  point  at  the  first  step;  help  had 
been  extended.  If  I  myself  failed  to  find  shelter  I 
could  go  to  her  for  protection.  I  intended  to  find  my 
lodging  place  if  possible  without  any  reference  or  any 
aid. 

Out  of  the  town  proper  in  a  quiet  side  street  I  saw 
a  little  wooden  tenement  set  back  from  the  road. 

"Furnished  Room  to  Rent,"  read  the  sign  in  the 
window.  A  sweet-faced  woman  responded  to  the 
bell  I  had  rung.  One  glance  at  me  and  she  said: 

"Ve  only  got  a  'sheep'  room." 

At  the  compliment  I  was  ill-pleased  and  told  her 
I  was  looking  for  a  cheap  room :  I  had  come  to  Lynn 
to  work.  Oh !  that  was  all  right.  That  was  the 
kind  of  people  she  received. 

I  followed  her  into  the  house.  I  must  excuse  her 
broken  English.  She  was  French.  Ah !  was  she  ? 
That  made  my  way  easier.  I  told  her  I  was  from 
Paris  and  a  stranger  in  this  part  of  the  country,  and 
thenceforth  our  understanding  was  complete.  In  28 
Viger  Street  we  spoke  French  always. 

My  room  in  the  attic  was  blue-and- white  papered ; 
a  little,  clean,  agreeable  room. 

Madam  begged  that  I  would  pardon  the  fact  that 
my  bed  had  no  sheets.  She  would  try  to -arrange 
later.  She  also  insinuated  that  the  "  young  ladies  " 
who  boarded  with  her  spoiled  all  her  floor  and  her 


A  MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT   LYNN      177 

furniture  by  slopping  the  water  around.  I  assured 
her  that  she  should  not  have  to  complain  of  me — I 
would  take  care. 

The  room  was  $1.25  a  week.  Could  I  pay  her  in 
advance?  I  did  so,  of  course.  I  would  have  to 
carry  up  my  water  for  washing  from  the  first  floor 
morning  and  night  and  care  for  my  room.  On  the 
landing  below  I  made  arrangements  with  the  tenant 
for  board  at  ten  cents  a  meal.  Madame  Courier  was 
also  a  French  Canadian,  a  mammoth  creature  with 
engaging  manners. 

"Mademoiselle  Ballard  has  work?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Well,  if  you  don't -get  a  job  my  husband  will 
speak  for  you.  I  have  here  three  other  young 
ladies  who  work  in  the  shops;  they'll  speak  for 
you!" 

Before  the  door  of  the  first  factory  I  failed 
miserably.  I  could  have  slunk  down  the  street  and 
gladly  taken  the  first  train  away  from  Lynn ! 
My  garments  were  heavy;  my  skirt,  lined  with  a 
sagging  cotton  goods,  weighed  a  ton;  the  woolen 
gloves  irritated. 

The  shop  fronted  the  street,  and  the  very  sight 
through  the  window  of  the  individuals  representing 
power,  the  men  whom  I  saw  behind  the  desks, 
frightened  me.  I  could  not  go  in.  I  fairly  ran 
through  the  streets,  but  stopped  finally  before 
a  humbler  shop — where  a  sign  swung  at  the  door: 


1 78  THE   WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

"Hands  Wanted."  I  went  in  here  and  opened  a 
door  on  the  third  floor  into  a  small  office. 

I  was  before  a  lank  Yankee  manufacturer.  Lean- 
ing against  his  desk,  twisting  from  side  to  side  in  his 
mouth  a  toothpick,  he  nodded  to  me  as  I  entered. 
His  wife,  a  grim,  spectacled  New  Englander,  sat  in 
the  revolving  desk-chair. 

"  I  want  work.     Got  any  ?  " 

"Waal,  thet's  jist  what  we  hev  got!  Ain't  we, 
Mary?" 

(I  felt  a  flashing  sensation  of  triumph.) 

"  Take  your  tippet  off,  set  right  down,  ef  you're  in 
earnest." 

"Oh,  I  am  in  earnest;  but  what  sort  of  work 
is  it?" 

"It's  gluein'  suspender  straps." 

"Suspenders!     I  want  to  work  in  a  shoe-shop!" 

He  smiled,  indulgent  of  this  whim. 

"They  all  does!  Don't  they,  Mary?"  (She 
acquiesced.) 

"Then  they  get  sick  of  the  shop,  and  they  come 
back  to  me.  You  will !" 

"  Let  me  try  the  shoe-shop  first ;  then  if  I  can't  get 
a  job  I'll  come  back." 

He  was  anxious  to  close  with  me,  however,  and 
took  up  a  pile  of  the  suspender  straps,  tempting  me 
with  them. 

"What  you  ever  dtihe?" 

"Nothing.     I'm  green!" 


A  MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT   LYNN      179 

"That  don't  make  no  difference;  they're  all  green, 
ain't  they,  Mary?"  ; 

"Yes,"  Mary  said;  "I  have  to  learn  them  all." 

"  Now,  to  Preston's  you  can  get  in  all  right,  but 
you  won't  make  over  four  dollars  a  week,  and 
here  if  you're  smart  you'll  make  six  dollars  in  no 
time."  .  .  . 

Preston's ! 

That  was  the  first  name  I  had  heard,  and  to 
Preston's  I  was  asking  my  way,  stimulated  by  the 
fact,  though  I  had  been  in  Lynn  not  an  hour  and  a 
half,  a  job  was  mine  did  I  care  to  glue  suspender 
straps  ! 

I  afterward  learned  that  Preston's,  a  little  factory 
on  the  town's  outskirts,  is  a  model  shoe-shop  in  its 
way.  I  did  not  work  there,  and  neither  of  the 
factories  in  which  I  was  employed  was  "model"  to 
my  judgment. 

A  preamble  at  the  office,  where  they  suggested 
taking  me  in  as  office  help: 

"But  I  am  green;  I  can't  do  office  work." 

Then  Mr.  Preston  himself,  working-director  in 
drilling-coat,  sat  before  me  in  his  private  office.  I 
told  him:  "  I  want  work  badly " 

He  had  nothing — was,  indeed,  turning  away 
hands;  my  evident  disappointment  had  apparently 
impressed  a  man  who  was  in  the  habit  of  refusing 
applicants  for  work. 

"Look  here" — he  mitigated  his  refusal — "come 


i8o  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

to-morrow  at  nine.     I'm  getting  in  a  whole  bale  of 
cloth  for  cutting  linings." 

"You'll  give  me  a  chance,  then?" 

"Yes,  I  will!" 

It  was  then  proven  that  I  could  not  starve  in  Lynn, 
nor  wander  houseless. 

With  these  evidences  of  success,  pride  stirred.  I 
determined  before  nightfall  to  be  at  work  in  a  Lynn 
shoe-shop.  It  was  now  noon,  streets  filled  with 
files  and  lines  of  freed  operatives.  Into  a  restaurant 
I  wandered  with  part  of  the  throng,  and,  with  excite- 
ment and  ambition  for  sauce,  ate  a  good  meal. 

Factories  had  received  back  their  workers  when  I 
applied  anew.     This  time  the  largest  building,  one  of 
the  most  important  shops  in  Lynn,  was  my  goal. 
At  the  door  of  Parsons'  was  a  sign  reading : 
"Wanted,  Vampers." 

A  vamper  I  was  not,  but  if  any  help  was  wanted 
there  was  hope.  My  demand  for  work  was  greeted 
at  the  office  this  time  with — "Any  signs  out  ?" 

"Yes." 

(What  they  were  I  didn't  deem  it  needful  to  say  !) 
The  stenographer  nodded:  "Go  upstairs,  then;  ask 
the  forelady  on  the  fifth  floor." 

Through  the  big  building  and  the  shipping-room, 
where  cases  of  shoes  were  being  crated  for  the 
market,  I  went,  at  length  really  within  a  factory's 
walls.  From  the  first  to  the  fifth  floor  I  went  in 
an  elevator — a  freight  elevator ;  there  are  no  others. 


A  MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT   LYNN      181 

of  course.  This  lift  was  a  terrifying  affair;  it  shook 
and  rattled  in  its  shaft,  shook  and  rattled  in  pitch 
darkness  as  it  rose  between  "safety  doors" — contin- 
uations of  the  building's  floors.  These  doors  open 
to  receive  the  ascending  elevator,  then  slowly  close, 
in  order  that  the  shaft  may  be  covered  and  the 
operatives  in  no  danger  of  stepping  inadvertently 
to  sudden  death. 

I  reached  the  fifth  floor  and  entered  into  pande- 
monium. The  workroom  was  in  full  working  swing. 
At  least  five  hundred  machines  were  in  operation 
and  the  noise  was  startling  and  deafening. . 

I  made  my  way  to  a  high  desk  where  a  woman 
stood  writing.  I  knew  her  for  the  forelady  by  her 
"air" ;  nothing  else  distinguished  her  from  the 
employees.  No  one  looked  up  as  I  entered.  I  was 
nowhere  a  figure  to  attract  attention;  evidently 
nothing  in  my  voice  or  manner  or  aspect  aroused 
supposition  that  I  was  not  of  the  class  I  simulated. 

Now,  into  my  tone,  as  I  spoke  to  the  forelady 
bending  over  her  account  book,  I  put  all  the  force  I 
knew.  I  determined  she  should  give  me  something 
to  do !  Work  was  everywhere :  some  of  it  should 
fall  to  my  hand. 

"Say,  I've  got  to  work.  Give  me  anything,  any- 
thing; I'm  green." 

She  didn't  even  look  at  me,  but  called — shrieked, 
rather — above  the  machine  din  to  her  colleagues: 

"Got  anything  for  a  green  hand?" 


1 82  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

The  person  addressed  gave  me  one  glance,  the 
sole  and  only  look  I  got  from  any  one  in  authority 
in  Parsons'. 

"Ever  worked  in  a  shoe-shop  before  ?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"I'll  have  you  learned  pressiri ;  we  need  a  presser. 
Go  take  your  things  off,  then  get  right  down  over 
there." 

I  tore  off  my  outside  garment  in  the  cloak-room, 
jammed  full  of  hats  and  coats.  I  was  obliged  to 
stack  my  belongings  in  a  pile  on  the  dirty  floor. 

Now  hatless,  shirt-waisted,  I  was  ready  to  labour 
amongst  the  two  hundred  bond-women  around  me. 
Excitement  quite  new  ran  through  me  as  I  went  to 
the  long  table  indicated  and  took  my  seat.  My 
object  was  gained.  I  had  been  in  Lynn  two  hours 
and  a  half  and  was  a  working- woman. 

On  my  left  the  seat  was  vacant;  on  my  right 
Maggie  McGowan  smiled  at  me,  although,  poor 
thing,  she  had  small  cause  to  welcome  the  green 
hand  who  demanded  her  time  and  patience.  She 
was  to  "learn  me  pressin',"  and  she  did. 

Before  me  was  a  board,  black  with  stains  of 
leather,  an  awl,  a  hammer,  a  pot  of  foulest-smelling 
glue,  and  a  package  of  piece-work,  ticketed.  The 
branch  of  the  trade  I  learned  at  Parsons'  was  as 
follows : 

Before  me  was  outspread  a  pile  of  bits  of  leather 
foxings,  back  straps,  vamps,  etc.  Dipping  my  brush 


A  MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT  LYNN      183 

in  the  glue,  I  gummed  all  the  extreme  outer  edges. 
When  the  "case"  had  been  gummed,  the  first  bits 
were  dry,  then  the  fingers  turned  down  the  gummed 
edges  of  the  leather  into  fine  little  seams;  these 
seams  are  then  plaited  with  the  awl  and  the  ruffled 
hem  flattened  with  the  hammer — this  is  "pressing." 
The  case  goes  from  presser  to  the  seaming  machine. 

The  instruments  turn  in  my  awkward  fingers.  I 
spread  glue  where  it  should  not  be :  edges  designated 
for  its  reception  remain  innocent.  All  this  means 
double  work  later.  "Twict  the  work!"  my  teacher 
remarks.  Little  by  little,  however,  the  simplicity 
of  the  manual  action,  the  uniformity,  the  mechanical 
movement  declare  themselves.  I  glance  from  time 
to  time  at  my  expert  neighbours,  compare  our  work; 
in  an  hour  I  have  mastered  the  method — skill  and 
rapidity  can  be  mine  only  after  many  days;  but  I 
worked  alone,  unaided. 

As  raw  edges,  at  first  defying  my  clumsiness,  fell 
to  fascinating  rounds,  as  the  awl  creased  the  leather 
into  the  fluting  folds,  as  the  hammer  mashed  the 
gummed  seam  down,  I  enjoyed  the  process;  it  was 
kindergarten  and  feminine  toil  combined,  not  too 
hard ;  but  it  was  only  the  beginning  ! 

Meanwhile  my  teacher,  patient-faced,  lightning- 
fingered,  sat  close  to  me,  reeking  perspiration,  tired 
with  the  ordeal  of  instructing  a  greenhorn.  With 
no  sign  of  exhausted  patience,  however,  she  gummed 
my  vamps  with  the  ill-smelling  glue. 


i84  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

"This  glue  makes  lots  of  girls  sick !  In  the  other 
shops  where  I  worked  they  just  got  sick,  one  by  one, 
and  quit.  I  stuck  it  out.  The  forelady  said  to  me 
when  I  left :  'My  !  I  never  thought  anybody  could 
stand  it's  long's  you  have.'  ' 

I  asked,  ''What  would  you  rather  do  than  this?" 

She  didn't  seem  to  know. 

"I  don't  do  this  for  fun,  though  !  Nor  do  you — 
I  bet  you!" 

(I  didn't — but  not  quite  for  her  reason.) 

As  I  had  yet  my  room  to  make  sure  of,  I  decided 
to  leave  early.  I  told  Maggie  McGowan  I  was  going 
home. 

"Tired  already  ?"  There  was  still  an  hour  to  dark. 

As  I  explained  to  her  my  reasons  she  looked  at 
my  amateur  accomplishment  spread  on  the  board 
before  us.  I  had  only  pressed  a  case  of  shoes — three 
dozen  pairs. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  put  it  on  my  card,"  she 
soliloquized,  "  'cause  I  learned  you." 

«Tl_         j  » 

Do — do 

"If  s  only  about  seven  cents,  anyway." 

"Three  hours'  work  and  that's  all  I've  made?"  * 

She  regarded  me  curiously,  to  see  how  the  amount 

tallied  with  my  hope  of  gain  and  wealth. 

"Yet  you  tell  me   I'm  not  stupid.     How  long 

have  you  been  at  it?" 

*  An  expert  prcsser  can  do  as  many  as  400  shoes  a  day.  This 
is  rare  and  maximum. 


"  LEARNING"  A  NEW  HAND 

Miss  P.,  an  experienced  "gummer"  on  vamp  linings,  is  a  New 
England  girl,  and  makes  S8  or  $9  a  week.  The  new  hand  makes 
from  $2.50  to  83  a  week  at  the  same  work 


A  MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT  LYNN      185 

"Ten  years." 

"And  you  make  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  discourage  you."     .     .     . 

(If  Maggie  used  this  expression  once  she  used  it  a 
dozen  times;  it  was  her  pat  on  the  shoulder,  her 
word  of  cheer  before  coming  ill  news.) 

".  .  .  I  don't  want  to  discourage  you,  but  it's 
slow !  I  make  about  twelve  dollars  a  week." 

"Then  I  will  make  four  !" 

(Four?  Could  it  be  possible  I  dreamed  of  such 
sums  at  this  stage  of  ignorance  !) 

"/  don't  want  to  discourage  you,  but  I  guess  you'd 
better  do  housework !" 

It  was  clear,  then,  that  for  weeks  I  was  to  drop  in 
with  the  lot  of  women  wage-earners  who  make  under 
five  dollars  a  week  for  ten  hours  a  day  labour. 

"Why  don't  you  do  housework,  Maggie?" 

"I  do.  I  get  up  at  five  and  do  all  the  work  of  our 
house,  cook  breakfast,  and  clean  up  before  I  come  to 
the  shop.  I  eat  dinner  here.  When  I  go  home 
at  night  I  get  supper  and  tidy  up  !" 

My  expression  as  I  fell  to  gumming  foxings  was 
not  pity  for  my  own  fate,  as  she,  generous  creature, 
took  it  to  be. 

"After  you've  been  here  a  few  years,"  she  said, 
"you'll  make  more  than  I  do.  I'm  not  smart. 
You'll  beat  me." 

Thus  with  tact  she  told  me  bald  truth,  and  yet 
had  not  discouraged ! 


1 86  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

Novel  situations,  long  walks  hither  and  thither 
through  Lynn,  stairs  climbed,  and  three  hours  of 
intense  application  to  work  unusual  were  tiring 
indeed.  Nevertheless,  as  I  got  into  my  jacket  and 
put  on  my  hat  in  the  suffocation  of  the  cloak-room 
I  was  still  under  an  exhilarating  spell.  I  belonged, 
for  time  never  so  little,  to  the  giant  machine  of  which 
the  fifth  floor  of  Parsons'  is  only  an  infinitesimal 
humming,  singing  part.  I  had  earned  seven  cents ! 
Seven  cents  of  the  $4,000,000  paid  to  Lynn  shoe 
employees  were  mine.  I  had  bought  the  right  to  one 
piece  of  bread  by  the  toil  of  my  unskilled  labour. 
As  I  fastened  my  tippet  of  common  black  fur  and 
drew  on  my  woolen  gloves,  the  odour  from  my  glue- 
and  leather-stained  hands  came  pungent  to  my 
nostrils.  Friends  had  said  to  me:  "Your  hands 
will  betray  you  !"  If  the  girls  at  my  side  in  Parsons' 
thought  anything  about  the  matter  they  made  no 
such  sign  as  they  watched  my  fingers  swiftly  lose 
resemblance  to  those  of  the  leisure  class  under  the  use 
of  instruments  and  materials  damning  softness  and 
beauty  from  a  woman's  hands. 

Yet  Maggie  had  her  sensitiveness  on  this  subject. 
I  remarked  once  to  her:  "I  don't  see  how  you 
manage  to  keep  your  hands  so  clean.  Mine  are 
twice  as  black."  She  coloured,  was  silent  for  a 
time,  then  said:  "I  never  want  anybody  to  speak 
to  me  of  my  hands.  I'm  ashamed  of  'em ;  they  used 
to  be  real  nice,  though."  She  held  the  blunted 


A  MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT   LYNN      187 

ends  up.  "They're  awful !  I  do  love  a  nice 
hand." 

The  cold  struck  sharp  as  a  knife  as  I  came  out 
of  the  factory.  Fresh  air,  insolent  with  purity, 
cleanness,  unusedness,  smiting  nostrils,  sought  lungs 
filled  too  long  with  unwholesome  atmosphere.* 

Heated  by  a  brisk  walk  home,  I  climbed  the  stairs 
to  my  attic  room,  as  cold  as  Greenland.  It  was 
nearly  six  thirty,  supper  hour,  and  I  made  a  shift 
at  a  toilet. 

Into  the  kitchen  I  was  the  last  comer.  All  of  the 
supper  not  on  the  table  was  on  the  stove,  and  between 
this  red-hot  buffet  and  the  supper  table  was  just 
enough  room  for  the  landlady  to  pass  to  and  fro 
as  she  waited  upon  her  nine  guests. 

No  sooner  did  I  open  the  door  into  the  smoky 
atmosphere,  into  the  midst  of  the  little  world  here 
assembled,  than  I  felt  the  quick  kindness  of  welcome. 

My  place  was  at  the  table's  end,  before  the  Irish 
stew. 

"Miss  Ballard ! "  The  landlady  put  her  arm 
about  my  waist  and  introduced  me,  mentioning  the 
names  of  every  one  present.  There  were  four 
women  besides  myself  and  four  men. 

"I  don't  want  Miss  Ballard  to  feel  strange,"  said 
my  hostess  in  her  pretty  Canadian  patois.  "I  want 
her  to  be  at  home  here." 

I  sat  down. 

*At  Plant's,  Boston,  fresh  air  cylinders  ventilate  the  shop. 


i88  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

"Oh,  she'll  be  at  home  all  right!"  A  frowzy- 
headed,  pretty  brunette  from  the  table's  other  end 
raised  kind  eyes  to  me  and  nodded  a  smiling  good- 
fellowship. 

"Come  to  work  in  the  shops  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Ever  been  to  Lynn  before?" 

"No;  live  in  Paris — stranger." 

"My,  but  that's  hard — all  alone  here!  Got  a 
job?" 

"Yes." 

And  I  explained  to  the  attentive  interest  of  all. 

From  the  Irish  stew  before  me  they  helped 
themselves,  or  passed  to  me  the  plates  from  the 
distance.  If  excitement  had  not  taken  from  me 
every  shred  of  appetite,  the  kitchen  odours,  smoke 
and  frying,  the  room's  stifling  heat  would  have 
dulled  hunger. 

Let  it  go  !     I  was  far  too  interested  to  eat. 

The  table  was  crowded  with  all  manner  of  sub- 
stances passing  for  food — cheese,  preserves,  onion 
pickles,  cake  and  Irish  stew,  all  eaten  at  one  time  and 
at  will ;  the  drink  was  tea. 

At  my  left  sat  a  well-dressed  man  who  would 
pass  anywhere  for  a  business  man  of  certain  dis- 
tinction. He  was  a  common  operator.  Next  him 
was  a  bridal  couple,  very  young  and  good  looking; 
then  came  the  sisters,  Mika  and  Nannette,  their 
brother,  a  packer  at  a  shop,  then  Mademoiselle 


A  MAKER  OF  SHOES   AT   LYNN      189 

Frances,  expert  hand  at  fourteen  dollars  a  week 
(a  heavy  swell  indeed),  then  Maurice. 

Although  I  was  evidently  an  object  of  interest, 
although  countless  questions  were  put  to  me,  let  me 
say  that  curiosity  was  markedly  absent.  Their 
attitude  was  humane,  courteous,  sympathetic,  agree- 
able, which  qualities  I  firmly  believe  are  supreme 
in  those  who  know  hardship,  who  suffer  privation, 
who  labour. 

Great  surprise  was  evinced  that  I  had  so  soon 
found  a  job.  Mika  and  Nannette,  brunette  Canadians, 
with  voices  sweet  and  carrying,  talked  in  good 
English  and  mediocre  French. 

"  It's  wonderful  you  got  a  job  right  off  !  Ain't  she 
in  luck !  Why,  most  has  to  get  spoken  of  weeks  in 
advance — introduced  by  friends,  too!" 

Mika  said:  "My  name's  been  up  two  months  at 
my  sister's  shop.  The  landlady  told  us  about  your 
coming,  Miss  Ballard.  We  was  going  to  speak  for 
you  to  our  foreladies." 

Here  my  huge  hostess,  who  during  my  stay  stood 
close  to  my  side  as  though  she  thought  I  needed  her 
motherliness,  put  her  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Yes,  mon  enfant,  we  didn't  want  you  to  get 
discouraged  in  a  strange  place.  Id  nous  sommes 
toute  une  famille." 

"All  one  family?"  Oh,  no,  no,  kind  creature, 
hospitable  receiver  of  a  stranger,  not  all  one  family  ! 
I  belong  to  the  class  of  the  woman  who,  one  day  by 


i9o  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

chance  out  of  her  carriage,  did  she  happen  to  sit  by 
your  side  in  a  cable  car,  would  pull  her  dress  from 
the  contact  of  your  clothes,  heavy  with  tenement 
odours ;  draw  back  as  you  crushed  your  huge  form 
down  too  close  to  her;  turn  no  look  of  sisterhood 
td  your  face,  brow-bound  by  the  beads  of  sweat,  its 
signet  of  labour. 

Not  one  family!  I  am  one  with  the  hostess, 
capable  even  of  greeting  her  guest  with  insolent 
discourtesy  did  such  a  one  chance  to  intrude  at  an 
hour  when  her  presence  might  imperil  the  next  step 
of  the  social  climber's  ladder. 

Not  one  family,  but  part  of  the  class  whose  tongues 
turn  the  truffle  buried  in  pate  de  foie  gras;  whose  lips 
are  reddened  with  Burgundies  and  cooled  with  iced 
champagnes ;  who  discuss  the  quality  of  a  canard  a 
la  presse  throughout  a  meal;  who  have  no  leisure, 
because  they  have  no  labour  such  as  you  know  the 
term  to  mean ;  who  create  disease  by  feeding  bodies 
unstimulated  by  toil,  whilst  you,  honestly  tired, 
really  hungry,  eat  Irish  stew  in  the  atmosphere  of 
your  kitchen  dining-hall. 

Not  one  family,  I  blush  to  say  !  •  God  will  not  have 
it  so. 

The  Irish  stew  had  all  disappeared,  every  vestige. 

"But  mademoiselle  eats  nothing — a  bird's  appe- 
tite." And  here  was  displayed  the  first  hint  of 
vulgarity  we  are  taught  to  look  for  in  the  other  class. 

She  put  her  hands  about  my  arms.     "  Ticns!  un 


A  MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT   LYNN      191 

bras  tout  de  meme!"  and  she  looked  at  Maurice,  the 
young  man  on  my  right. 

"Maurice  c'est  toi  qui  devrait  f  informer  des  bras 
d*  mademoiselle. ' ' 

("Maurice,  it  is  you  who  should  inform  yourself 
of  mademoiselle's  arms.") 

Maurice  laughed  with  appreciation,  as  did  the 
others.  He  was  the  sole  American  at  table;  out  of 
courtesy  f of  him  we  talked  English  from  time  to  time, 
although  he  assured  us  he  understood  all  we  said  in 
"the  jargon." 

To  Maurice  a  master  pen  could  do  justice;  none 
other.  His  type  is  seen  stealing  around  corners  in 
London's  Whitechapel  and  in  the  lowest  quarters  of 
New  York:  a  lounger,  indolent,  usually  drunk. 
Maurice  was  the  type,  with  the  qualities  absent. 
Tall,  lank,  loosely  hung  together,  made  for  muscular 
effort,  he  wore  a  dark  flannel  shirt,  thick  with  grease 
and  oil  stains,  redolent  with  tobacco,  a  checked  waist- 
coat, no  collar  or  cravat.  From  the  collarless  circle 
of  his  shirt  rose  his  strong  young  neck  and  bullet 
head;  his  forehead  was  heavy  and  square  below  the 
heavy  brows ;  his  black  eyes  shone  deep  sunken  in 
their  caverns. 

His  black  hair,  stiff  as  a  brush,  came  low  on  his 
forehead ;  his  mouth  was  large  and  sensual,  his  teeth 
brilliant.  But  his  hands !  never  to  be  forgotten ! 
Scrubbed  till  flesh  might  well  have  parted  from  the 


193  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

bones !  clean,  even  if  black  and  mutilated  with  toil ; 
fingers  forever  darkened;  stained  ingrained  ridges 
rising  around  the  nails,  hard  and  ink-black  as 
leather.  Maurice  was  Labour  —  its  Symbol  —  its 
Epitome. 

At  the  landlady's  remark  he  had  blushed  and 
addressed  me  frankly: 

"Say,  I  work  to  de  'Lights.'" 

(Lights !  Can  such  a  word  be  expressive  of  the 
factory  which  has  daily  blackened  and  scarred  and 
dulled  this  human  instrument  ?) 

"To  the  'Lights,'  and  it  ain't  no  cinch,  I  can  tell 
you !  I  got  to  keep  movin'.  Every  minute  I'm 
late  I  get  docked  for  wages — it's  a  day's  work  to  the 
'Lights.'  When  she  calls  me  at  six — why,  I  don't 
turn  over  and  snooze  another !  I  just  turn  right 
out.  I  walk  two  miles  to  my  shop — and  every  man 
in  his  place  at  6:45  •  Don't  you  forgit  it !" 

He  cleaned  his  plate  of  food. 

"  I  jest  keep  movin'  all  de  time." 

He  wiped  his  mouth — rose  unceremoniously,  put 
on  his  pot-like  derby  a  jaunt,  lit  a  vile  cigar,  slipped 
into  a  miserable  old  coat,  and  was  gone,  the  odour 
of  his  weed  blending  its  new  smell  with  kitchen 
fumes. 

He  is  one  of  the  absolutely  real  creatures  I  have 
ever  seen.  Of  his  likeness  types  of  crime  are  drawn. 
Maurice — blade  keen-edged,  hidden  in  its  battered 
sheath,  its  ugly  case — terrible  yet  attractive  speci- 


A  MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT  LYNN      193 

men  of  strength  and  endurance — Youth  and  Man- 
hood in  you  are  bound  to  labour  as  on  the  rack, 
and  in  the  ordeal  you  keep  (as  does  the  mass  of 
humanity)  Silence ! 

Eat  by  this  man's  side,  heap  his  plate  with  coarse 
victuals,  feel  the  touch  of  his  flannel  sleeve  against 
your  own  flannel  blouse,  see  his  look  of  brotherhood 
as  he  says : 

"Say,  if  de  job  dey  give  you  is  too  hard,  why,  I 
guess  I  kin  get  yer  in  to  the  '  Lights' !" 

These  are  sensations  facts  alone  can  give. 

After  dinner  we  sit  all  together  in  the  parlour,  the 
general  living-room:  carpet-covered  sofa,  big  table, 
few  chairs — that'-s  all.  We  talk  an  hour — and  on 
what  ?  We  •  discuss  Bernhardt,  the  divine  Sarah. 
"  Good  shows  don't  come  to  Lynn  much ;  it  don't  pay 
them.  You  can't  get  more  than  fifty  cents  a  seat. 
Now  Bernhardt  don't  like  to  act  for  fifty-cent  houses ! 
But  the  theatres  are  crowded  if  ever  there's  a  good 
show.  We  get  tired  of  the  awful  poor  shows  to  the 
Opera  House."  Maude  Adams  was  a  favourite. 
Re"  jane  had  been  seen.  Of  course,  the  vital  American 
interest — money — is  touched  upon,  let  me  say 
lightly,  and  passed.  The  packer  at  Rigger's,  intelli- 
gent and  well-informed  and  well-read,  discoursed  in 
good  French  about  English  and  French  politics 
and  on  the  pleasure  it  would  be  to  travel  and 
see  the  world. 


194  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

At  nine,  friendly  handshaking.  "  Good-night. 
You're  tired.  You'll  like  it  all  right  to  the  shops, 
see  if  you  don't !  You'll  make  money,  too.  The 
forelady  must  a-seen  that  you  were  ambitious. 
Why,  to  my  shop  when  a  new  hand  applies  for  a 
job  the  foreman  asks:  'What  does  he  look  like? 
Ambitious  lookin'  ?  Well,  then — there's  room." 

Ambitious  to  make  shoes !  To  grind  out  all  you 
can  above  the  average  five  dollars  a  week,  all  you 
may  by  conscientious,  unflagging  work  during  224 
hours  out  of  a  month. 

Good-night  to  the  working  world  !  Landlady  and 
friendly  co-labourers. 

"//  ne  faut  pas  vous  gener,  mademoiselle;  nous 
sommes  toute  une  famille." 

Upstairs  in  my  room  the  excitement,  died  quite 
out  of  me.  I  lay  wakeful  in  the  hard,  sheet  less  bed. 
It  was  cold,  my  window-pane  freezing  rapidly.  I 
could  not  sleep.  On  either  side,  through  the  thin 
walls  of  the  house,  I  could  hear  my  neighbours 
settling  to  repose.  Maurice's  room  was  next  to  mine. 
He  whistled  a  short  snatch  of  a  topical  song  as  he 
undressed.  On  the  other  side  slept  the  landlady's 
children;  opposite,  the  packer  from  Rigger's.  The 
girls'  room  was  downstairs.  When  Maurice's  song 
had  reached  its  close  he  heaved  a  profound  sigh, 
and  then  followed  silence,  as  slumber  claimed  the 
sole  period  of  his  existence  not  devoted  to  work. 
The  tenement  soon  passed  to  stillness  complete. 


A   MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT  LYNN      195 

Before  six  the  next  morning — black  as  night — 
the  call:  "Mau — rice!  Mau — rice!"  rang  through 
the  hall.  Summons  to  us  all,  given  through  him  on 
whom  the  exigencies  of  life  fell  the  heaviest. 
Maurice  worked  by  day  system — the  rest  of  us  were 
freed  men  and  women  by  comparison. 

The  night  before,  timid  and  reluctant  to  descend 
the  two  flights  of  pitch  dark  stairs  with  a  heavy 
water-pitcher  in  my  hand,  I  had  brought  up  no 
water !  It  is  interesting  to  wonder  how  scrupulous 
we  would  all  be  if  our  baths  were  carried  up  and 
down  two  flights  of  stairs  pitcher  by  pitcher.  A 
little  water  nearly  frozen  was  at  hand  for  my  toilet. 
By  six  I  was  dressed  and  my  bed  made;  by  6:15  in 
the  kitchen,  dense  with  smoke  from  the  frying  break- 
fast. Through  the  haze  the  figures  of  my  friends 
declared  themselves.  Codfish  balls,  bread  and 
butter  and  coffee  formed  the  repast. 

Maurice  is  the  first  to  finish,  standing  a  moment  to 
light  his  pipe,  his  hat  acock ;  then  he  is  gone.  The 
sisters  wash  at  the  sink,  Mika  combing  her  mass  of 
frowzy  dark  hair,  talking  meanwhile.  The  sisters' 
toilet,  summary  and  limited,  is  frankly  displayed. 

At  my  right  the  bride  consumes  five  enormous 
fish  balls,  as  well  as  much  bread.  Her  husband,  a 
young,  handsome,  gentle  creature,  eats  sparingly. 
His  hand  is  strapped  up  at  the  wrist. 

"What's  wrong?" 

"Strained  tendons.     Doctor  says  they'd  be  all 


i96  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

right  if  I  could  just  hold  up  a  little.  They  don't  get 
no  chance  to  rest." 

"But  why  not  'hold  up'  awhile?"  He  regards 
me  sympathetically  as  one  who  says  to  an  equal,  a 
fellow :  ' '  You  know  why  ! — for  the  same  reason  that 
you  yourself  will  work  sick  or  well." 

"  On  fait  ce  que  Von  pent!" 

("  One  does  one's  best !") 

When  the  young  couple  had  left  the  room  our 
landlady  said : 

"The  little  woman  eats  well,  doesn't  she!  She 
needs  no  tonic  !  All  day  long  she  sits  in  my  parlour 
and  rocks — and  rocks." 

"She  does  nothing?" 

Madame  shrugged. 

"  But  yes  !     She  reads  novels  ! " 

It  was  half-past  six  when  I  got  into  the  streets. 
The  midwinter  sky  is  slowly  breaking  to  dawn.  The 
whole  town  white  with  fresh  snow,  and  still  half- 
wedded  to  night,  is  nevertheless  stirring  to  life. 

I  become,  after  a  block  or  two,  one  of  a  hurrying 
throng  of  labour-bound  fellows — dark  forms  appear 
from  streets  and  avenues,  going  in  divers  direc- 
tions toward  their  homes.  Homes?  Where  one 
passes  most  of  one's  life,  is  it  not  Home? 

These  figures  to-day  bend  head  and  shoulders 
against  the  wind  as  it  blows  neck-coverings  about, 
forces  bare  hands  into  coat  pockets. 

By  the  time  the  town  has  been  traversed,  railroad 


A  MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT  LYNN      197 

track  crossed,  and  Parsons'  in  sight,  day  has  nearly 
broken.  Pink  clouds  float  over  factory  roofs  in  a 
sky  growing  bluer,  flushing  to  day. 

From  now  on  the  day  is  shut  put  for  those  who 
here  and  there'  enter  the  red-brick  factories.  An 
hour  at  noon?  Of  course,  this  magnificent  hour  is 
theirs !  .  Time  to  eat,  time  to  feed  the  human 
machine.  One  hour  in  which  to  stretch  limbs,  to  pull 
to  upright  posture  the  bent  body.  Meanwhile  day- 
light progresses  from  glowing  beauty  to  high  noon, 
and  there  the  acme  of  brilliance  seems  to  pause,  as 
freed  humanity  stares  half -blinded  at  God's  midday 
rest. 

All  the  remaining  hours  of  daylight  are  for  the 
leisure  world.  Not  till  night 'claims  Lynn  shall  the 
factory  girl  be  free. 

Ascending  the  five  flights  of  dirty  stairs,  my  steps 
fell  side  by  side  those  of  a  young  workman  in 
drilling  coat.  He  gave  me  a  good-morning  in  a 
cheery  tone. 

4 '  Working  here  ?     Got  it  good  ? ' ' 

"I  guess  so." 

"That's  all  right.     Good-day." 

Therefore  I  began  my  first  labour  day  with  a  good 
wish  from  my  new  class  ! 

On  the  fifth  floor  I  was  one  of  the  very  first 
arrivals.  If  in  the  long,  low-ceiled  room  windows 
had  been  opened,  the  flagging  air  gave  no  sign  to  the 
effect.  It  was  fetid  and  cold.  Daylight  had  not 


i98  THE   WOMAN    WHO  TOILS 

fully  found  the  workshop,  gas  was  lit,  and  no  work 
prepared.  I  was  eager  to  begin,  but  was  forced  to 
wait  before  idle  tools  till  work  was  given  me — hard 
ordeal  for  ambitious  piece-worker.  At  the  tick  of 
seven,  however,  I  had  begun  my  branch  of  the  shoe- 
making  trade.  One  by  one  my  mates  arrived ;  the 
seats  beyond  me  and  on  either  side  were  filled. 

Opposite  me  sat  a  ghost  of  girlhood.  A  tall, 
slender  creature,  cheeks  like  paper,  eyes  sunken. 
She,  too,  had  the  smile  of  good-fellowship — coin 
freely  passed  from  workwoman  to  workwoman. 

This  girl's  job  was  filthy.  She  inked  edges  of  the 
shoes  with  a  brush  dipped  in  a  pot  of  thick  black 
fluid.  Pile  after  pile  of  piece-work  was  massed  in 
front  of  her ;  pile  by  pile  disappeared.  She  worked 
like  lightning. 

"Do  you  like  your  job?"  I  ventured.  This 
seemed  to  be  the  open  sesame  to  all  conversations  in 
the  shops.  She  shrugged  her  narrow  shoulders  but 
made  no  direct  reply.  "  I  used  to  have  what  you're 
doing;  it's  awful.  That  glue  made  me  sick.  I  was 
in  bed.  So  when  I  came  back  I  got  this."  She  was 
separated  from  my  glue-pot  by  a  table's  length  only. 

"But  don't  you  smell  it  from  here?" 

"Not  so  bad;  this  here"  (pointing  to  her  black 
fluid)  "smells  stronger;  it  drownds  it. 

"  I  make  my  wages  clear,"  she  announced  to  me  a 
few  minutes  later. 

"I low  do  you  mean ?" 


A  MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT   LYNN      199 

"Why,  at  noon  I  wait  in  a  restaurant;  they  give 
me  my  dinner  afterward.  I  go  back  there  and  wait 
on  the  table  at  supper,  too.  My  vittles  don't  cost 
me  anything !" 

So  that  is  where  your  golden  noon  hour  is  spent, 
standing,  running,  waiting,  serving  in  the  ill-smelling 
restaurant  I  shall  name  later;  and  not  your  dinner 
hour  alone,  but  the  long  day's  fag  end  ! 

"I  ain't  from  these  parts,"  she  continued,  confi- 
dentially, "I'm  down  East.  I  used  to  run  a  machine, 
but  it  hurts  my  side." 

My  job  went  well  for  an  amateur.  I  finished  one 
case  of  shoes  (thirty-six  pairs)  in  little  more  than  an 
hour.  By  ten  o'clock  the  room  grew  stifling  hot.  I 
was  obliged  to  discard  my  dress  skirt  and  necktie, 
loosen  collar,  roll  up  my  sleeves.  My  warmer 
blooded  companions  did  the  like.  It  was  singular 
to  watch  the  clock  mark  out  the  morning  hours, 
and  at  ten,  already  early,  very  early  in  the  fore- 
noon, feel  tired  because  one  had  been  three  hours 
at  work. 

A  man  came  along  with  nuts  and  apples  in  a  basket 
to  sell.  I  bought  an  apple  for  five  cents.  It  was 
regarded  by  my  teacher,  Maggie,  as  a  prodigal 
expenditure !  I  shared  it  with  her,  and  she  in  turn 
shared  her  half  with  her  neighbours,  advising  me 
wisely. 

"Say,  you'd  better  earn  an  apple  before  you  buy 
one !" 


2oo  THE  WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

My  companion  on  the  other  side  was  a  pretty 
country  girl.  She  regarded  her  work  with  good- 
humoured  indifference;  indeed,  her  labour  was  of 
very  indifferent  quality.  I  don't  believe  she  was 
ever  intended  to  make  shoes.  In  a  cheerful  under- 
tone she  sang  topical  songs  the  morning  long.  It 
drove  Maggie  McGowan  "mad,"  so  she  said. 

"Say,  why  don't  some  of  youse  sing?"  said  the 
little  creature,  looking  down  our  busy  line.  "I 
never  hear  no  singing  in  the  shops." 

Maggie  said,  "Sing !  Well,  I  don't  come  here  to 
sing." 

The  other  laughed  sweetly. 

"Well,  I  jest  have  to  sing." 

"You  seem  happy;  are  you?"  She  looked  at  me 
out  of  her  pretty  blue  eyes. 

"You  bet !  That's  the  way  to  be  !"  Then  after 
a  little,  in  an  aside  to  me  alone,  she  whispered: 

"Not  always.     Sometimes  I  cry  all  to  myself. 

"See  the  sun?"  she  exclaimed,  lifting  her  head. 
(It  shone  golden  through  the  window's  dirty,  cloudy 
pane.)  "He's  peekin'  at  me !  He'll  find  you  soon. 
Looks  like  he  was  glad  to  see  us  sitting  here  1" 

Sun,  friend,  light,  air,  seek  them — seek  them ! 
Pour  what  tide  of  pure  gold  you  may  in  through  the 
sullied  pane;  touch,  caress  the  bowed  heads  at  the 
clicking  machines !  Shine  on  the  dusty,  untidy 
hair !  on  the  bowed  shoulders !  on  the  flying  hands ! 

At  noon  I  made  a  reluctant  concession  to  wisdom 


A   MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT   LYNN     201 

and  habit.  Unwilling  to  thwart  my  purposes  and 
collapse  from  sheer  fatigue,  at  the  dinner  hour  I 
went  to  a  restaurant  and  ordered  a  meal  in  keeping 
with  my  appetite.  I  had  never  been  so  hungry. 
I  almost  wept  with  joy  when  the  chicken  and  cran- 
berry and  potato  appeared.  Never  was  sauce  more 
poignant  than  that  which  seasoned  the  only  real 
repast  I  had  in  Lynn. 

The  hours  from  one  to  three  went  fairly  well,  but 
by  3 130  I  was  tired  out,  my  fingers  had  grown 
wooden  with  fatigue,  glue-pot  and  folding-line, 
board,  hammer  and  awl  had  grown  indistinct.  It 
was  hard-to  continue.  The  air  stifled.  Odours 
conspired  together.  Oil,  leather,  glue  (oh,  that 
to-heaven-smelling  glue  !),  tobacco  smoke,  humanity. 

Maggie  asked  me,  "How  old  do  I  look?"  I  gave 
her  thirty.  Twenty-five  it  seemed  she  was.  In 
guessing  the  next  girl's  age  no  better  luck.  "It's 
this,"  Maggie  nodded  to  the  workroom;  "it  takes  it 
out  of  you !  Just  you  wait  till  you've  worked  ten 
years  in  Lynn." 

Ten  years !  Heaven  forbid !  Already  I  could 
have  rushed  from  the  factory,  shaken  its  dust  from 
my  feet,  and  with  hands  over  ears  shut  out  the 
horrid  din  that  inexorably  cried  louder  than  human 
speech. 

Everything  we  said  was  shrieked  in  the  friendly 
ear  bent  close. 


202 

Although  Maggie  McGowan  was  curious  about 
me,  in  posing  her  questions  she  was  courtesy  itself. 

"Say,"  to  her  neighbour,  "where  do  you  think 
Miss  Ballard's  from?  Paris  !" 

My  neighbour  once-removed  leaned  forward  to 
stare  at  me.  "My,  but  that's  a  change  to  Lynn ! 
Ain't  it  ?  Now  don't  you  think  you'll  miss  it  ?" 

She  fell  to  work  again,  and  said  after  a  little: 
"Paris !  Why,  that's  like  a  dream.  Is  it  like  real 
places  ?  I  can't  never  guess  what  it  is  like  !" 

The  girl  at  the  machine  next  mine  had  an  ear  like 
a  sea-shell,  a  skin  of  satin.  Her  youth  was  bound, 
strong  shoulders  already  stooped,  chest  fast  narrow- 
ing. At  7  A.  M.  she  came:  albeit  fresh,  pale  still  and 
wan ;  rest  of  the  night  too  short  a  preparation  for  the 
day's  work.  By  three  in  the  afternoon  she  was 
flushed,  by  five  crimson.  She  threw  her  hands  up 
over  her  head  and  exclaimed:  "My  back's  broke, 
and  I've  only  made  thirty-five  cents  to-day." 

Maggie  McGowan  (indicating  me):  "Here's  a 
girl  who's  had  the  misfortune  never  to  work  in  a 
shoe-shop." 

"Misfortune  ?    You  don't  mean  that !" 

Maggie:  "Well,  I  guess  I  don't!  If  I  didn't 
make  a  joke  now  and  then  I'd  jump  into  the  river  !" 

She  sat  close  to  me  patiently  directing  my  clumsy 
fingers. 

"Why  do  you  speak  so  strongly?  'Jump  into 
the  river !'  That's  saying  a  lot !" 


A   MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT   LYNN      203 

"I  am  sick  of  the  shoe-shops." 

"How  long  have  you  been  at  this  work?" 

"Ten  years.  When  you  have  worked  ten  years 
in  Lynn  you  will  be  sick  of  the  shops." 

I  was  sick  of  the  shops,  and  I  had  not  worked  ten 
years.  And  for  my  hard-toiling  future,  such  as  she 
imagined  that  it  would  be,  I  could  see  that  she 
pitied  me.  Once,  supposing  that  since  I  am  so 
green  and  so  ill-clad,  and  so  evidently  bent  on  learn- 
ing my  trade  the  best  I  knew,  she  asked  me  in  a  voice 
quick  with  sisterhood: 

"Say,  are  you  hungry?" 

"No,  no,  no." 

"You'll  be  all  right !  No  American  girl  need  to 
starve  in  America." 

In  the  shops  the  odours  are  more  easily  endured 
than  is  the  noise.  All  conversation  is  shrieked  out, 
and  all  the  vision  that  one  has  as  one  lifts  one's  eyes 
from  time  to  time  is  a  sky  seen  through  dirty  window- 
panes,  distant  chimney-pots,  and  the  roof-lines  of 
like  houses  of  toil. 

I  gathered  this  from  our  interrupted  talk  that 
flowed  unceasingly  despite  the  noise  of  our  hammers 
and  the  noise  of  the  general  room. 

They  worked  at  a  trade  uncongenial.  Not  one 
had  a  good  word  to  say  for  shop-labour  there,  despite 
its  advantages,  in  this  progressive  land  of  generous 
pay.  Each  woman  in  a  narrow,  touching  degree 


204  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

was  a  dreamer.  Housework  !  too  servile ;  but  then, 
compared  to  shopwork  it  was  leisure. 

By  four  the  gas  was  lit  here  and  there  where 
burners  were  available.  Over  our  heads  was  no 
arrangement  for  lighting.  We  bent  lower  in  semi- 
obscurity.  In  the  blending  of  twilight  and  gaslight 
the  room  became  mysterious,  a  shadowy  corridor. 
Figures  grew  indistinct,  softened  and  blurred.  The 
exhausted  air  surrounded  the  gas  jets  in  misty 
circles. 

Unaltered  alone  was  the  ceaseless  thud,  the 
chopping,  pounding  of  the  machinery,  the  long 
soughing  of  the  power-engine. 

Here  and  there  a  woman  stops  to  rest  a  second, 
her  head  sunk  in  her  hand;  or  she  rises,  stretches 
limbs  and  body.  A  man  wanders  in  from  the  next 
room,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  or  a  bad  cigar,  and  pausing 
by  one  of  the  pale  operators,  whose  space  of  rest  is 
done,  he  flings  down  in  front  of  her  a  new  pile  of 
piece-work  from  the  cutting  machines. 

We  are  up  five  flights  of  stairs.  There  are  at  least 
two  hundred  girls.  Machine  oil,  rags,  refuse,  cover 
the  floor— such  debris  as  only  awaits  a  spark  from  a 
lighted  match  or  cigar  to  burst  into  flames.  Despite 
laws  and  regulations  the  building  is  not  fire-proof. 
There  is  no  fire-escape.  A  cry  of  fire,  and  great 
Heaven !  what  escape  for  two  hundred  of  us  from 
this  mountain  height,  level  with  roofs  of  the 
distant  town ! 


A  MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT   LYNN      205 

Thus  these  women,  shapes  mysterious  in  gaslight 
and  twilight,  labour:  life  is  at  stake;  health,  youth, 
vigour,  supply  little  more  than  bread.  I  rise;  my 
bruised  limbs,  at  first  numb,  then  aching,  stir  for 
the  first  time  after  five  hours  of  steady  work.  The 
pile  of  shoes  before  me  is  feeble  evidence  of  the  last 
hours'  painful  effort. 

I  get  into  my  clothes — skirt,  jacket  and  hat,  all 
impregnated  now  with  factory  and  tenement  odours, 
and  stumble  downstairs  and  out  into  the  street.  I 
have  earned  fifty  cents  to-day — but  then,'  I  am 
green ! 

When  once  more  in  the  cool,  fresh  air,  released, 
I  draw  in  a  long  and  grateful  breath. 

Lynn  on  this  winter  night  is  a  snow-bound, 
midwinter  village.  In  the  heavens  is  the  moon's 
ghost,  a  mist-shrouded,  far-away  disk.  But  it  is 
the  Christmas  moon,  shining  on  the  sleeping  thou- 
sands in  the  town,  where  night  alone  is  free. 
The  giant  factories  are  silent,  the  machines  at 
last  quiet r  the  long  workrooms  moon-invaded. 
Labour  is  holy,  but  serfdom  is  accursed,  and  toil 
which  demands  that  every  hour  of  daylight  should 
be  spent  in  the  race  for  existence — all  of  the  day- 
light—is kin  to  slavery  !  There  is  no  time  for  mental 
or  physical  upright-standing,  no  time  for  pleasure. 

One  day  I  decided  to  consider  myself  dismissed 
from  Parsons'.  They  had  taught  me  all  they  could, 


206  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

unless  I  changed  my  trade,  in  that  shop ;  I  wished 
to  learn  a  new  one  in  another.  Therefore,  one  morn- 
ing I  applied  at  another  factory,  again  one  of  the 
largest  in  Lynn.  The  sign  read : 

"Cleaner  Wanted!" 

"Cleaner"  sounded  easy  to  learn.  My  experience 
this  time  was  with  a  foreman  instead  of  a  forelady. 
The  workroom  I  sought  was  on  the  second  floor,  a 
room  filled  with  men,  all  of  them  standing.  Far 
down  the  room's  centre  I  saw  the  single  figure  of  a 
woman  at  her  job.  By  her  side  I  was  soon  to  be, 
and  we  two  the  sole  women  on  the  second  floor. 

The  foreman  was  distinctly  a  personage.  Small, 
kind,  alive,  he  wore  a  straw  hat  and  eye-glasses. 
He  had  decided  in  a  moment  that  my  short 
application  for  "something  to  do"  was  not  to  be 
gainsaid. 

"Ever  worked  before  ?" 

This  time  I  had  a  branch  of  a  trade  at  my  fingers' 
ends. 

"Yes,  sir;  presser." 

I  was  proud  t)f  my  trade. 

I  did  not  even  know,  as  I  do  now,  that  "cleaning" 
is  the  filthiest  job  the  trade  possesses.  It  is  in  bad 
repute  and  difficult  to  secure  a  woman  to  do  the 
unpleasant  work. 

"You  come  with  me,"  he  said  cheerfully;  "I'll 
teach  you." 

The  forelady  at  Parsons'  did  not  know  whether  I 


A  MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT  LYNN      207 

worked  well  or  not.  She  never  came  to  see.  The 
foreman  in  Marches'  taught  me  himself. 

Two  high  desks,  like  old-time  school  desks,  rose 
in  the  workshop's  centre.  Behind  one  of  these  I 
stood,  whilst  the  foreman  in  front  of  me  instructed 
my  ignorance.  The  room  was  filled  with  high 
crates  rolled  hither  and  thither  on  casters.  These 
crates  contained  anywhere  from  thirty-two  to  fifty 
pairs  of  boots.  The  cases  are  moved  from  operator 
to  operator  as  each  man  selects  the  shoes  to  apply 
to  them  the  especial  branch  of  his  trade.  From  the 
crate  of  boots  rolled  to  my  side  I  took  four  boots  and 
placed  them  on  the  desk  before  me.  With  the  heel 
of  one  pressed  against  my  breast,  I  dipped  my  fore- 
finger in  a  glass  of  hot  soap  and  water,  water  which 
soon  became  black  as  ink.  I  passed  my  wet,  soapy 
finger  all  around  the  boot's  edges,  from  toe  to  heel. 
This  loosened,  in  the  space  between  the  sole  and 
vamp,  the  sticky  dye  substance  on  the  leather  and 
particles  so-called  "  dirt."  Then  with  a  bit  of  wood 
covered  with  Turkish  toweling  I  scraped  the  shoe 
between  the  sole  and  vamp  and  with  a  third  cloth 
polished  and  rubbed  the  boot  clean.  In  an  hour's 
time  I  did  one-third  as  well  as  my  companion. 
I  cleaned  a  case  in  an  hour,  whilst  she  cleaned  three. 

When  my  employer  had  left  me  I  observed  the 
woman  at  my  side:  an  untidy,  degraded-looking 
creature,  long  past  youth.  Her  hands  beggared 
description;  their  covering  resembled  skin  not  at 


208  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

all,  but  a  dark-blue  substance,  leatherlike,  bruised, 
ingrained,  indigo-hued.  Her  nails  looked  as  though 
they  had  been  beaten  severely.  One  of  her  thumbs 
was  bandaged. 

"I  lost  one  nail;  rotted  off." 

"Horrible!     How,  pray?" 

"That  there  water:  it's  poison  from  the  shoe-dye." 

Swiftly  my  hands  were  changing  to  a  faint  likeness 
of  my  companion's. 

"  Don't  tell  him,"  she  said,  "that  I  told  you  that. 
He'll  be  mad;  he'll  think  I  am  discouraging  you. 
But  you'll  lose  your  forefinger  nail,  all  right !"  Then 
she  gave  a  little  laugh  as  she  turned  her  boot  around 
to  polish  it. 

"Once  I  tried  to  clean  my  hands  up.  Lord !  it's 
no  good !  I  scrub  'em  with  a  scrubbin'-brush  on 
Sundays." 

"How  long  have  you  been  at  this  job  ?" 

"Ten  months." 

They  called  her  "Bobby";  the  men  from  their 
machines  nodded  to  her  now  and  then,  bantering 
her  across  the  noise  of  their  wheels.  She  was  igno- 
rant of  it,  too  stupid  to  know  whether  life  took  her  in 
sport  or  in  earnest !  The  men  themselves  worked  in 
their  flannel  shirts.  Not  far  from  us  was  a  wretchedly 
ill-looking  individual,  the  very  shadow  of  manhood. 
I  observed  that  once  he  cast  toward  us  a  look  of 
interest.  Under  my  feet  was  a  raised  platform  on 
which  I  stood,  bending  to  my  work.  During  the 


A   MAKER  OF  SHOES  AT   LYNN      209 

morning  the  consumptive  man  strolled  over  and 
whispered  something  to  "  Bobby."  He  made  her 
dullness  understand.  When  he  had  gone  back  to  his 
job  she  said  to  me : 

"Say,  w'y  don't  yer  push  that  platform  away  and 
stand  down  on  the  floor?  You're  too  tall  to  need 
that.  It  makes  yer  bend." 

"Did  that  man  come  over  to  tell  you  this  ?" 

' '  Yes.     He  said  it  made  you  tired. ' ' 

From  my  work,  across  the  room,  I  silently  blessed 
the  pale  old  man,  bowed,  thin,  pitiful,  over  the  shoe 
he  held,  obscured  from  me  by  the  cloud  of  sawdust- 
like  flying  leather  that  spun  scattered  from  the  sole 
he  held  to  the  flying  wheel. 

I  don't  believe  the  shoe-dye  really  to  be  poisonous. 
I  suppose  it  is  scarcely  possible  that  it  can  be  so ; 
but  the  constant  pressure  against  forefinger  nail  is 
enough  to  induce  disease.  My  fingers  were  swollen 
sore.  The  effects  of  the  work  did  not  leave  my  hands 
for  weeks. 

"Bobby"  was  not  talkative  or  communicative 
simply  because  she  had  nothing  to  say.  Over  and 
over  again  she  repeated  the  one  single  question  to 
me  during  the  time  I  worked  by  her  side:  "Do  you 
like  your  job?"  and  although  I  varied  my  replies  as 
well  as  I  could  with  the  not  too  exhausting  topic 
she  offered,  I  could  not  induce  her  to  converse.  She 
took  no  interest  in  my  work,  absorbed  in  her  own. 


210  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

Every, now  and  then  she  would  compute  the  sum 
she  had  made,  finally  deciding  that  the  day  was  to 
be  a  red-bean  day  and  she  would  make  a  dollar  and 
fifty  cents.  During  the  time  we  worked  together 
she  had  cleaned  seventeen  cases  of  shoes. 

In  this  shop  it  was  hotter  than  in  Parsons'.  We 
sweltered  at  our  work.  Once  a  case  of  shoes  was 
cleaned,  I  wrote  my  initial  "B"  on  the  tag  and  rolled 
the  crate  across  the  floor  to  the  man  next  me,  who 
took  it  into  his  active  charge. 

The  foreman  came  to  me  many  times  to  inspect, 
approve  and  encourage.  He  was  a  model  teacher 
and  an  indefatigable  superintendent.  Just  how  far 
personal,  and  just  how  far  human,  his  kindness, 
who  can  say? 

"You've  been  a  presser  long  at  the  shoe-shops?" 

"No." 

"I  like  your  pluck.  When  a  girl  has  never  had  to 
work,  and  takes  hold  the  way  you  do,  I  admire  it. 
You  will  get  along  all  right." 

"Thank  you;  perhaps  I  won't,  though." 

"Now,  don't  get  nervous.  I  am  nervous  myself," 
he  said ;  "I  know  how  that  is." 

On  his  next  visit  he  asked  me:  "Where  you  goin' 
to  when  you  get  out  of  here  to-night  ?" 

I  told  him  that  I  was  all  right — that  I  had  a  place 
to  stay. 

"If  you're  hard  up,  don't  get  discouraged;  come 
to  me." 


So 
_  > 

•s! 

c  -^ 

rt_2 
•e-5 


o  .S^S 

2  4>  >* 

S     •  f  *" 


85    rt    ~ 

C  a  S 

M    C    C 


o  <« 

5  E 


A  MAKER   OF   SHOES  AT   LYNN      211 

I  thanked  him  again  and  said  that  I  could  not 
take  charity." 

"Nonsense!  I  don't  call  it  charity  !  If  I  was  hard 
put,  don't  you  s'pose  I'd  go  to  the  next  man  if  he 
offered  me  what  I  offer  you  ?  The  world  owes  you  a 
livin'." 

When  the  foreman  had  left  me  I  turned  to  look  at 
"  Bobby."  She  was  in  the  act  of  lifting  to  her  lips 
a  glass  of  what  was  supposed  to  be  water. 

"You're  not  going  to  drink  that !"  I  gasped, 
horrified.  "Where  did  you  get  it?"  « 

"Oh,  I  drawed  it  awhile  ago,"  she  said. 

It  had  stood  gathering  microbes  in  the  room, 
visible  ones  evidently,  for  a  scum  had  formed  on  the 
glass  that  looked  like  stagnant  oil.  She  blew  the 
stuff  back  and  drank  long.  Her  accent  was  so  bad 
and  her  English  so  limited  I  took  her  to  be  a  foreigner 
beyond  doubt.  She  proved  to  be  an  American. 
She  had  worked  in  factories  all  her  life,  since  she  was 
eight  years  old,  and  her  brain  was  stunted. 

At  dinner  time,  when  I  left  Marches',  I  had  stood, 
without  sitting  down  once,  for  five  hours,  and  accord- 
ing to  Bobby's  computation  I  had  made  the  large 
sum  of  twenty-five  cents,  having  cleaned  a  little 
more  than  one  hundred  shoes.  To  all  intents,  at 
least  for  the  moment,  my  hands  were  ruined.  At 
Weyman's  restaurant  I  went  in  with  my  fellow 
workwomen  and  men. 

Weyman's  restaurant  smells  very  like  the  steerage 


212  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

in  a  vessel.  The  top  floor  having  burned  out  a  few 
weeks  before,  the  ceiling  remained  blackened  and 
filthy.  The  place  was  so  close  and  foul-smelling  that 
eating  was  an  ordeal.  If  I  had  not  been  so  famished, 
it  would  have  been  impossible  for  me  to  swallow  a 
mouthful.  I  bought  soup  and  beans,  and  ate,  in 
spite  of  the  inconveniences,  ravenously,  and  paid 
for  my  dinner  fifteen  cents.  Most  of  my  neighbours 
took  one  course,  stew  or  soup.  I  rose  half -satisfied, 
dizzy  from  the  fumes  and  the  bad  air.  I  am  safe 
in  saying  that  I  never  smelled  anything  like  to 
Wey man's,  and  I  hope  never  to  again.  Never  again 
shall  I  hear  food  and  drink  discussed  by  the  gourmet 
— discuss,  indeed,  with  him  over  his  repast — but 
there  shall  rise  before  me  Weyman's  restaurant,  low- 
ceiled,  foul,  crowded  to  overflowing.  I  shall  see 
the  diners  bend  edged  appetites  to  the  unpalatable 
food.  These  Weyman  patrons,  mark  well,  are  the 
rich  ones,  the  swells  of  labour — able  to  squander 
fifteen  to  twenty  cents  on  their  stew  and  tea.  There 
are  dozens,  you  remember,  still  in  the  unaired  fourth 
and  fifth  stories — at  "lunching"  over  their  sand- 
wiches. Far  more  vivid,  more  poignant  even  must 
be  to  me  the  vision  of  "Bobby."  I  shall  see  her 
eat  her  filthy  sandwich  with  her  blackened  hands, 
see  her  stoop  to  blow  the  scum  of  deadly  matter 
from  her  typhoid-breeding  glass. 

In  Lynn,  unless  she  boards  at  home,  a  girl's  living 


A  MAKER  OF   SHOES  AT  LYNN      213 

costs  her  at  best  $3.75  a  week.  If  she  be  of  the 
average*  her  month's  earnings  are  $32.  Reduce 
this  by  general  expenses  and  living  and  her  surplus 
is  $ 1 6,  to  earn  which  she  has  toiled  224  hours.  You 
will  recall  that  there  are,  out  of  the  22,000  operatives 
in  Massachusetts,  5,000  who  make  under  $5  a  week. 
I  leave  the  reader  to  compute  from  this  the  luxuries 
and  possible  pleasures  consistent  with  this  income. 

A  word  for  the  swells  of  the  trade,  for  swells  exist. 
One  of  my  companions  at  28  Viger  Street  made 
$14  a  week.  Her  expenses  were  $4;  she  there- 
fore had  at  her  disposition  about  $40  a  month.  She 
had  no  family — every  cent  of  her  surplus  she  spent  on 
her  clothes. 

"I  like  to  look  down  and  see  myself  dressed  nice," 
she  said;  "it  makes  me  feel  good.  I  don't  like 
myself  in  poor  clothes." 

She  was  well-dressed — her  furs  good,  her  hat 
charming.  We  walked  to  work  side  by  side,  she 
the  lady  of  us.  Of  course  she  belongs  to  the  Union. 
Her  possible  illness  is  provided  for;  her  death  will 
bring  $100  to  a  distant  cousin.  She  is  only  tired 
out,  thin,  undeveloped,  pale,  that's  all.  She  is 
almost  a  capitalist,  and  extremely  well  dressed. 

Poor  attire,  if  I  can  judge  by  the  reception  I  met 
with  in  Lynn,  influences  only  those  who  by  reason 
of  birth,  breeding  and  education  should  be  above 
such  things.  In  Viger  Street  I  was  more  simply 

*Lynn's  average  wages  are  $8  per  week. 


2i4  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

clad  than  my  companions.  My  aspect  called  forth 
only  sisterhood  and  kindness. 

Fellowship  from  first  to  last,  fellowship  from  their 
eyes  to  mine,  a  spark  kindled  never  to  be  extin- 
guished. The  morning  I  left  my  tenement  lodging 
Mika  took  my  hand  at  the  door. 

"Good-by."  Her  eyes  actually  filled.  "I'm 
awful  sorry  you're  going.  If  the  world  don't  treat 
you  good  come  back  to  us." 

I  must  qualify  a  little.  One  member  of  the 
working  class  there  was  on  whom  my  cheap  clothes 
had  a  chilling  effect — the  spoiled  creature  of  the 
traveling  rich,  a  Pullman  car  porter  on  the  train 
from  Boston  to  New  York  !  Although  I  called  him 
first  and  purposely  gave  him  my  order  in  time,  he 
viewed  me  askance  and  served  me  the  last  of  all. 
As  I  watched  my  companions  in  their  furs  and 
handsome  attire  eat,  whilst  I  sat  and  waited,  my 
woolen  gloves  folded  in  my  lap,  I  wondered  if  any 
one  of  the  favoured  was  as  hungry,  as  famished  as  the 
presser  from  Parsons',  the  cleaner  from  Marches'. 


THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON  MILLS 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON  MILLS 

THE  MILL  VILLAGE 

Columbia,  South  Carolina,  of  course  is  conscious 
that  there  are  mills  without  its  city  precincts.  It  is 
proud  of  the  manufacture  that  gives  the  city 
precedence  and  commercial  value  all  over  the  world. 
The  trolley  runs  to  the  mills  empty,  as  a  rule,  after 
the  union  depot  is  passed. 

Frankly,  what  is  there  to  be  seen  in  these  dusty 
suburbs?  Entry  to  the  mills  themselves  is  difficult, 
if  not  absolutely  impossible.  And  that  which  forms 
the  background  for  the  vast  buildings,  the  Mill 
Village,  is  a  section  to  be  shunned  like  the  plague. 
Plague  is  not  too  strong  a  word  to  apply  to  the 
pest-ridden,  epidemic-filled,  filthy  settlement  where 
in  this  part  of  the  country  the  mill-hand  lives, 
moves  and  has  his  beings  horrible  honeycomb  of 
lives,  shocking  morals  and  decency. 

Around  Columbia  there  lie  five  mills  and  their 
respective  settlements  —  Excelsior,  the  Granton, 
Calcutta,  the  Richland  and  the  Capital  City.  Each 
of  these  mills  boasts  its  own  sp-called  town.  When 

217 


2i8  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

these  people  are  free  on  Saturday  afternoon  and 
Sunday  they  are  too  exhausted  to  do  anything  but 
turn  into  their  hovels  to  sleep.  At  most  on  Saturday 
afternoons  or  Sundays  they  board  a  trolley  and 
betake  themselves  to  a  distant  park  which,  in  the 
picturesque  descriptions  of  Columbia,  reads  like  an 
Arcadia  and  is  in  reality  desolation. 

The  mill-hands  are  not  from  the  direct  section  of 
Columbia.  They  are  strangers  brought  in  from 
"the  hills"  by  the  agents  of  the  company,  who  go 
hither  and  thither  through  the  different  parts  of  the 
country  describing  to  the  poor  whites  and  the  hill 
dwellers  work  in  the  mills  as  a  way  to  riches  and 
success.  Filled  with  dreams  of  gain  and  possessions, 
with  hopes  of  decent  housing  and  schooling  for  their 
children,  they  leave  their  distant  communities  and 
troop  to  the  mills.  These  immigrants  are  pictur- 
esque, touching  to  see.  They  come  with  all  they 
own  in  the  world  on  their  backs  or  in  their  hands; 
penniless;  burrs  and  twigs  often  in  the  hair  of  the 
young  girls.  They  are  hatless,  barefooted,  ignorant ; 
innocent  for  the  most  part — and  hopeful !  What  the 
cpndition  of  these  labourers  is  after  they  have 
tested  the  promises  of  the  manufacturer  and  found 
them  empty  bubbles  can  only  be  understood  and 
imagined  when  one  has  seen  their  life,  lived  among 
them,  worked  by  their  side,  and  comprehended  the 
tragedy  of  this  population — a  floating  population, 
going  from  Granton  to  Excelsior,  from  Excelsior 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     219 

to  Richland,  hither  and  thither,  seeking — seeking 
better  conditions.  They  have  no  affiliation  with  the 
people  of  the  town;  they  are  looked  down  upon  as 
scum:  and  in  good  sooth,  for  good  reason,  scum 
they  are ! 

It  is  spring,  warm,  gracious.  This  part  of  the 
world  seems  to  be  well-nigh  treeless !  There  is  no 
generous  foliage,  but  wherever  there  are  branches 
to  bear  it  the  first  green  has  started  out,  delicate, 
tender  and  beautiful. 

In  my  simple  work  garb  I  leave  Cclumbia  and  take 
a  trolley  to  the  mill  district.  I  have  chosen  Excelsior 
as  best  for  my  purpose.  Its  reputation  is  most  at 
stake;  its  prospectus  dazzling;  its  annals  effective. 
If  such  things  are  done  in  Gath  .  .  . ! 

I  cannot  say  with  what  timidity  I  descend  from 
the  tram  in  this  strange  country,  foreign  to  my 
Northern  habitation  and  filled  with  classes  whose 
likeness  I  have  never  seen  and  around  which  the 
Southern  Negro  makes  a  sad  and  gloomy  background. 

Before  the  trolley  has  arrived  at  the  corporation 
stores  Excelsior  has  spoken — roared,  clicked  forth 
so  vibrantly,  so  loudly,  I  am  prepared  to  feel  the 
earth  shake.  This  is  the  largest  mill  in  the  world 
and  looks  it !  A  model,  too  in  point  of  view  of 
architecture.  I  have  read  in  the  prospectus  that  it 
represents  $1,750,000  capital,  possesses  104,000 
spindles,  employs  1,200  hands,  and  can,  with  crowd- 
ing, employ  3,000.  Surely  it  will  have  place  for  one 


220  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

more,  then !  I  am  impressed  with  its  grandeur  as 
it  rises,  red-bricked,  with  proud,  straight  towers 
toward  its  centre — impressed  and  frightened  by  its 
insistent  call  as  it  rattles  and  hums  to  me  across  the 
one-sixteenth  of  a  mile  of  arid  sand  track.  At  one 
side  Christianity  and  doctrine  have  constructed  a 
church :  a  second  one  is  building.  On  the  other  side, 
at  a  little  distance,  lies  Granton,  second  largest  mill. 
All  this  I  take  in  as  I  make  my  way  Excelsiorward. 
Between  me  and  the  vast  mill  itself  there  is  not  a 
soul.  A  thick,  sandy  road  winds  to  the  right ;  in  the 
distance  I  can  see  a  black  trestle  over  which  the 
freight  cars  take  the  cotton  manufactures  to  the 
distant  railroad  arid  ship  them  to  all  parts  of  the 
world.  Beyond  the  trestle  are  visible  the  first 
shanties  of  the  mill  town. 

Work  first  and  lodgings  afterward  are  my  goals. 
At  the  door  of  Excelsior  I  am  more  than  overwhelmed 
by  its  magnificence  and  its  loud  voice  that  makes 
itself  so  far-reachingly  heard.  There  is  no  entry  for 
me  at  the  front  of  the  mill,  and  I  toil  around  to  the 
side ;  not  a  creature  to  be  seen.  I  venture  upon  the 
landing  and  make  my  way  along  a  line  of  freight  cars 
—between  the  track  and  the  mill. 

A  kind-faced  man  wanders  out  from  an  un- 
observed doorway ;  a  gust  of  roar  follows  him ! 
He  sees  me,  and  lifts  his  hat  with  the  ready 
Southern  courtesy  not  yet  extinct.  I  hasten  to 
ask  for  work. 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     221 

"Well,  thar's  jest  plenty  of  work,  I  reckon  !  Go  in 
that  do' ;  the  overseer  will  tell  you." 

Through  the  door  open  behind  him  I  catch 
glimpses  of  a  room  enormous  in  dimensions.  Cotton 
bales  lie  on  the  floor,  stand  around  the  walls  and  are 
piled  in  the  centre.  Leaning  on  them,  handling 
them,  lying  on  them,  outstretched,  or  slipping  like 
shadows  into  shadow,  are  the  dusky  shapes  of  the 
black  Negro  of  true  Southern  blood.  I  have  been 
told  there  is  no  Negro  labour  in  the  mills.  I  take 
advantage  of  my  guide's  kind  face  to  ask  him  if  he 
knows  where  I  can  lodge. 

"Hed  the  measles?  Well,  my  gyrl  got  'em. 
Thar's  a  powerful  sight  of  measles  hyar.  I'd  take 
you-all  to  bo'd  at  my  house  ef  you  ain't  'fraid  of 
measles.  Thar's  the  hotel."  (He  points  to  what  at 
the  North  would  be  known  as  a  brick  shanty.)  "A 
gyrl  can  bo'd  thar  for  $2.25  a  week.  You  won't 
make  that  at  first." 

With  extreme  kindness  he  leads  me  into  the  roaring 
mill  past  picturesque  black  men  and  cotton  bales: 
we  reach  the  "weave-room."  I  am  told  that 
carpet  factories  are  celebrated  for  their  uproar,  but 
the  weave-looms  of  a  cotton  mill  to  those  who  know 
them  need  no  description !  This  is  chaos  before 
order  was  conceived :  more  weird  in  that,  despite  the 
din  and  thunder,  everything  is  so  orderly,  so  per- 
fectly carried  forth  by  the  machinery.  Here  the 
cotton  cloth  is  woven.  Excelsior  is  so  vast  that  from 


222  THE  WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

one  end  to  the  other  of  a  room  one  cannot  distinguish 
a  friend.  I  decide  instantly  that  the  weave-room 
shall  not  be  my  destination !  An  overseer  comes 
up  to  me.  He  talks  with  me  politely  and  kindly — 
that  is,  as  well  as  he  can,  he  talks !  It  is 
almost  impossible  to  hear  what  he  says.  He  asks 
me  simple  and  few  questions  and  engages  me 
promptly  to  work  that  "evening,"  as  the  Southerner 
calls  the  hours  after  midday. 

"You  can  see  all  the  work  and  choose  a  sitting 
or  a  standing  job."  This  is  an  improvement  on 
Pittsburg  and  Lynn. 

•  I  have  been  told  there  is  always  work  in  the  mills 

for  the  worker. 

It  is  not  strange  that  every  inducement  consistent 

.         with  corporation  rules  should  be  made  to  entice  the 

labouring  girl !     The  difficulty  is  that  no  effort  is 

made  to  keep  her !     The  ease  with  which,  in  all  these 

I        experiences,  work  has  been  obtained,  goes  definitely 

to  prove  that  there  is  a  demand  everywhere  for 

labourers. 

Organize  labour,  therefore,  so  well  that  the  work- 
woman who  obtains  her  task  may  be  able  to  continue  it 
and  keep  her  health  and  her  self-respect. 

With  Excelsior  as  my  future  workshop  I  leave 
the  mill  to  seek  lodging  in  the  mill  village. 

The  houses  built  by  the  corporation  for  the  hands 
are  some  five  or  six  minutes'  walk,  not  more,  from 
the  palace-like  structure  of  the  mill  proper.  To  reach 


THE   SOUTHERN  COTTON   MILLS     223 

them  I  plod  through  a  roadway  ankle-deep  in  red 
clay  dust.  The  sun  is  bright  and  the  air  heavy, 
lifeless  and  dull;  the  scene  before  me  is  desolate, 
meager  and  poverty-stricken  in  the  extreme. 

The  mill  houses  are  all  built  exactly  alike.  Painted 
in  sickly  greens  and  yellows,  they  rise  on  stilt-like 
elevations  above  the  malarial  soil.  Here  tfye 
architect  has  catered  to  the  different  families, 
different  individual  tastes  in  one  point  of  view  alone, 
regarding  the  number  of  rooms :  They  are  known  as 
"four-  or  six-room  cottages."  In  one  of  the  first 
cottages  to  the  right  a  wholesome  sight — the  single 
wholesome  sight  I  see  during  my  experience — meets 
my  eye.  Human  kindness  has  transformed  one  of 
the  houses  into  a  kindergarten — "Kindergarten" 
is  over  the  door.  A'  pretty  Southern  girl,  a  lady, 
stands  surrounded  by  her  little  flock.  The  handful 
of  half  a  dozen  emancipated  children  who  are  not  in 
the  mills  is  refreshing  to  see.  There  are  very  few ; 
the  kindergarten  flags  for  lack  of  little  scholars. 

I  accost  her.  "Can  you  tell  me  any  decent  place 
to  board  ? "  She  is  sorry,  regards  me  kindly  with  the 
expression  I  have  grown  to  know — the  look  the  eyes 
adopt  when  a  person  of  one  class  addresses  her 
sister  in  a  lower  range. 

"  I  am  a  stranger  come  out  to  work  in  the  mills." 

But  the  young  lady  takes  little  interest  in  me. 
Children  are  her  care.  They  surround  her,  clinging, 
laughing,  calling — little  birds  fed  so  gently  by  the 


224  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

womanly  hand.  She  turns  from  the  working- 
woman  to  them,  but  not  before  indicating  a  shanty 
opposite : 

"Mrs.  Green  lives  there  in  that  four-room 
cottage.  She  is  a  good  woman." 

Through  the  door's  crack  I  interview  Mrs.  Green, 
a  pallid,  sickly  creature,  gowned,  as  are  most  of  the 
women,  in  a  calico  garment  made  all  in  one  piece. 
She  permits  me  to  enter  the  room  which  forms  (as 
do  all  the  front  rooms  in  a  mill  cottage)  bedroom 
and  general  living-room. 

Here  is  confusion  incarnate — and  filthy  disorder. 
The  tumbled,  dirty  bed  fills  up  one-half  the  room. 
In  it  is  a  little  child,  shaking  with  chills.  On  the 
bare  floor  are  bits  of  food,  old  vegetables,  rags,  dirty 
utensils  of  all  sorts  of  domestic  description.  The 
house  has  a  sickening  odour.  The  woman  tells  me 
she  is  too  ill  to  keep  tidy — too  ill  to  keep  boarders. 
We  do  not  strike  a  bargain.  "  I  am  only  here  four 
months,"  she  said.  "Sick  ever  since  I  come,  and 
my  little  girl  has  fevernaygu." 

I  wander  forth  and  a  child  directs  me  to  a  six- 
room  cottage,  "a  real  bo'din'-house."  I  attack  it 
and  thus  discover  the  dwelling  where  I  make  my 
home  in  Excelsior. 

From  the  front  room  of  this  dwelling  a  kitchen 
opens.  Within  its  shadow  I  see  a  Negro  washing 
dishes.  A  tall  woman,  taller  than  most  men, 
angular,  white-haired,  her  face  seared  by  toil  and 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     225 

stricken  with  age,  greets  me:  she  is  the  landlady. 
At  her  skirts,  catching  them  and  staring  at  a  stranger, 
wanders  a  very  young  child — a  blue-eyed,  clean 
little 'being;  a  great  relief,  in  point  of  fact,  to  the 
general  filth  hitherto  presented  me.  The  room 
beyond  me  is  clean.  I  draw  a  breath  of  gratitude. 

"Mrs.  Jones?" 

"Yes,  this  is  Jones'  bo'din'-house." 

The  old  woman  has  a  comb  in  her  hand;  she 
has  "jest  ben  com'in'  Letty's  hair."  Letty  smiles 
delightedly. 

"This  yere's  the  child  of  the  lady  upstairs.  The 
mother's  a  pore  sick  thing."  Mrs.  Jones  bends 
the  stiffness  of  sixty-eight  years  over  the  stranger's 
child.  "And  grandmaw  keeps  Letty  clean,  don't 
she,  Letty  ?  She  don't  never  whip  her,  neither;  jest 
a  little  cross  to  her." 

"Can  I  find  lodging  here?" 

She  looks  at  me.  "Yes,  ma'am,  you  kin.  I'm 
full  up ;  got  a  lot  of  gentlemen  bo'ders,  but  not  many 
ladies.  I  got  one  bed  up  aloft;  you  can't  have  it 
alone  neither,  and  the  baby's  mother  is  sick  up  there, 
too.  Nuthin'  ketchin*.  She  come  here  a  stranger; 
the  mill  was  too  hard  on  her ;  she's  ben  sick  fo'  days." 

I  had  made  a  quick  decision  and  accepted  half  a 
bed.  I  would  return  at  noon. 

"Stranger  hyar,  I  reckon?" 

"Yes;  from  Massachusetts.     A  shoe-hand." 

She  shakes  her  head:     "You  wont  like  the  mills." 


226  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

She  draws  Letty  between  her  old  stiff  knees,  seats 
herself  on  a  straight  chair,  and  combs  the  child's 
hair  on  either  side  its  pathetic,  gentle  little  face. 
So  I  leave  her  for  the  present  to  return  to  Colu'mbia 
and  fetch  back  with  me  my  bundle  of  clothes. 

When  I  return  at  noon  it  is  dinner  time.  I  enter 
and  am  introduced,  with  positive  grace  and  courtesy, 
by  my  dear  old  landlady  to  her  son-in-law,  "Tommy 
Jones,"  a  widower,  a  man  in  decent  store  clothes 
and  a  Derby  hat  surrounded  by  a  majestic  crape 
sash.  He  is  nonchalantly  loading  a  large  revolver, 
and  thrusts  it  in  his  trousers  pocket:  "Always 
carry  it,"  he  explains;  "comes  handy!"  Then  I 
am  presented  to  the  gentlemen  boarders.  I  beg  to 
go  upstairs,  with  my  bundles,  and  I  see  for  the  first 
time  my  dwelling  part  of  this  shanty. 

A  ladderlike  stair  leading  directly  from  the  kitchen 
takes  me  into  the  loft.  Heavens  !  the  sight  of  that 
sleeping  apartment !  There  are  three  beds  in  it, 
sagging  beds,  covered  by  calico  comforters.  The 
floor  is  bare ;  the  walls  are  bare.  I  have  grown  to 
know  that  "Jones'  "  is  the  cleanliest  place  in  the 
Excelsior  village,  and  yet  to  our  thinking  it  lacks 
perfection.  Around  the  bare  walls  hang  the  gar- 
ments of  the  other  women  who  share  the  room  with 
me.  What  humble  and  pathetic  decorations  !  poor, 
miserable  clothes — a  shawl  or  two,  a  coat  or  two,  a 
cotton  wrapper,  a  hat ;  and  on  one  nail  the  miniature 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     227 

clothes  of  Letty — a  little  night-dress  and  a  tiny  blue 
cotton  dress.  I  put  my  bundle  down  by  the  side 
of  my  bed  which  I  am  to  share  with  another  woman, 
and  descend,  for  Mrs.  Jones'  voice  summons  me 
to  the  midday  meal. 

The  nourishment  provided  for  these  thirteen-hour- 
a-day  labourers  is  as  follows:  On  a  tin  saucepan 
there  was  a  little  salt  pork  and  on  another  dish  a  pile 
of  grease-swimming  spinach.  A  ragged  Negro 
hovered  over  these  articles  of  diet;  the  room  was 
full  of  the  smell  of  frying.  After  the  excitement 
of  my  search  for  work,  and  the  success,  if  success  it 
can  be  called  that  so  far  had  met  me,  I  could  not  eat ; 
I  did  not  even  sit  down.  I  made  my  excuse.  I 
said  that  I  had  had  something  to  eat  in  Columbia, 
and  started  out  to  the  mill. 

By  the  time  the  mill-hand  has  reached  his  home  a 
good  fifteen  minutes  out  of  the  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  recreation  is  gone:  his  food  is  quickly  bolted, 
and  by  the  time  I  have  reached  the  little  brick 
hotel  pointed  out  to  me  that  morning  and  descended 
to  its  cellar  restaurant,  forced  myself  to  drink  a  cup 
of  sassafras  tea,  and  mounted  again  into  the  air,  the 
troop  of  workers  is  on  the  march  millward.  I  join 
them. 

Although  the  student  of  philanthropy  and  the 
statistician  would  find  difficulty  in  forcing  the 
countersign  of  the  manufactories,  the  worker  may 
go  everywhere. 


228  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

I  do  not  see  my  friend  of  the  morning,  the  over- 
seer, in  the  "weave-room" ;  indeed,  there  is  no  one  to 
direct  me ;  but  I  discover,  after  climbing  the  stairs,  a 
room  of  flying  spools  and  more  subdued  machinery, 
and  it  appears  that  the  spool-room  is  this  man's 
especial  charge.  He  consigns  to  me  a  standing 
job.  A  set  of  revolving  spools  is  designated,  and 
he  secures  a  pretty  young  girl  of  about  sixteen, 
who  comes  cheerfully  forward  and  consents  to 
"learn"  me. 

Spooling  is  not  disagreeable,  and  the  room  is  the 
quietest  part  of  the  mill — noisy  enough,  but  calm 
compared  to  the  others.  In  Excelsior  this  room  is,  of 
course,  enormous,  light  and  well  ventilated,  although 
the  temperature,  on  account  of  some  quality  of  the 
yarn,  is  kept  at  a  point  of  humidity  far  from  whole- 
some. 

"Spooling"  is  hard  on  the  left  arm  and  the  side. 
Heart  disease  is  a  frequent  complaint  amongst  the 
older  spoolers.  It  is  not  dirty  compared  to  shoe- 
making,  and  whereas  one  stands  to  "spool,"  when 
one  is  not  waiting  for  yarn  it  is  constant  move- 
ment up  and  down  the  line.  The  fact  that  there  are 
more  children  than  young  girls,  more  young  girls 
than  women,  proves  the  simplicity  of  this  task. 
The  cotton  conies  from  the  spinning-room  to  the 
spool-room,  and  as  the  girl  stands  before  her  "side," 
as  it  is  called,  she  sees  on  a  raised  ledge,  whirling  in 
rapid  vibration,  some  one  hundred  huge  spools  full 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     229 

of  yarn ;  whilst  below  her,  each  in  its  little  case,  lies  a 
second  bobbin  of  yarn  wound  like  a  distaff. 

Her  task  controls  machinery  in  constant-  motion, 
that  never  stops  except  in  case  of  accident. 

With  one  finger  of  her  right  hand  she  detaches 
the  yarn  from  the  distaff  that  lies  inert  in  the 
little  iron  rut  before  her.  With  her  left  hand  she 
seizes  the  revolving  circle  of  the  large  spool's  top  in 
front  of  her,  holding  this  spool  steady,  overcoming 
the  machinery  for  the  moment  not  as  strong  as  her 
grasp.  This  demands  a  certain  effort.  Still  con- 
trolling the  agitated  spool  with  her  left  hand,  she 
detaches  the  end  of  yarn  with  the  same  hand  from 
the  spool,  and  by  means  of  a  patent  knotter  harnessed 
around  her  palm  she  joins  together  the  two  loosened 
ends,  one  from  the  little  distaff  and  one  from  this 
large  spool,  so  that  the  two  objects  are  set  whirling 
in  unison  and  the  spool  receives  all  the  yarn  from 
the  distaff.  Up  and  down  this  line  the  spooler  must 
walk  all  day  long,  replenishing  the  iron  grooves  with 
fresh  yarn  and  reknitting  broken  strands.  This  is  all 
that  there  is  of  "spooling."  It  demands  alertness, 
quickness  and  a  certain  amount  of  strength  from  the 
left  arm,  and  that  is  all !  To  conceive  of  a  woman  of 
intelligence  pursuing  this  task  from  the  age  of  eight 
years  to  twenty-two  on  down  through  incredible 
hours  is  not  salutary.  You  will  say  to  me,  that  if 
she  demands  nothing  more  she  is  fit  for  nothing 
more.  I  cannot  think  it. 


23o  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

The  little  girl  who  teaches  me  spooling  is  fresh  and 
cheerful  and  jolly;  I  grant  her  all  this.  She  lives  at 
home.  I  am  told  by  my  subsequent  friends  that  she 
thinks  herself  better  than  anybody.  This  pride  and 
ambition  has  at  least  elevated  her  to  neat  clothes  and 
a  sprightliness  of  manner  that  is  refreshing.  She 
does  not  hesitate  to  evince  her  superiority  by  making 
sport  of  me.  She  takes  no  pains  to  teach  me  well. 
Instead  of  giving  me  the  patent  knotter,  which  would 
have  simplified  my  job  enormously,  she  teaches  me 
what  she  expresses  "the  old-fashioned  way" — knot- 
ting the  yarn  with  the  fingers.  I  have  mastered  this 
slow  process  by  the  time  that  the  overseer  discovers 
her  trick  and  brings  me  the  harness  for  my  left  hand. 
She  is  full  of  curiosity  about  me,  asking  me  every 
sort  of  question,  to  which  I  give  the  best  answers 
that  I  can.  By  and  by  she  slips  away  from  me.  I 
turn  to  find  her;  she  has  vanished,  leaving  me  under 
the  care  of  a  truly  kind,  sad  little  creature  in  a 
wrapper  dress.  This  little  Maggie  has  a  heart  of  gold. 

"Don't  you-all  fret,"  she  consoles.  "That's  like 
Jeannie:  she's  so  mean.  When  you  git  to  be  a 
remarkable  fine  spooler  she'll  want  you  on  her  side, 
you  bet." 

She  assists  my  awkwardness  gently. 

"I'll  learn  you  all  right.  You-all  kin  stan'  hyar 
by  me  all  day.  Jeannie  clean  fergits  she  was  a 
greenhorn  herself  onct;  we  all  wuz.  Whar  you 
come  from?" 


THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON  MILLS     231 

"Lynn,  Massachusetts." 

"Did  you-all  git  worried  with  the  train?  I  only 
bin  onto  it  onct,  and  it  worried  me  for  days  !" 

She  tells  me  her  simple  annals  with  no  question : 

"My  paw  he  married  ag'in,  and  me  stepmother 
peard  like  she  didn't  care  for  me;  so  one  day  I  sez 
to  paw,  'I'm  goin*  to  work  in  the  mills' — an'  I  lef 
home  all  alone  and  come  here."  After  a  little — 
"When  I  sayd  good-by  to  my  father  peard  like  he 
didn't  care  neither.  I'm  all  alone  here.  I  bo'ds 
with  that  girl's  mother." 

I  wore  that  day  in  the  mill  a  blue-checked  apron. 
So  did  Maggie,  but  mine  was  from  Wanamaker's  in 
New  York,  and  had,  I  suppose,  a  certain  style,  for 
the  child  said : 

"I  suttenly  dew  think  that  yere's  a  awful  pretty 
apron:  where' d  you  git  it?" 

"Where  I  came  from,"  I  answered,  and,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  it  sounded  brusque.  For  the  little  thing 
blushed,  fearful  lest  she  had  been  indiscreet.  .  .  . 
(Oh,  I  assure  you  the  qualities  of  good  breeding  are 
there!  Some  of  my  factory  and  mill  friends  can 
teach  the  set  in  which  I  move  lessons  salutary ! ) 

"I  didn't  mean  jest  'xactly  wherebouts,"  she 
murmurs;  "I  only  meant  it  warn't  from  these 
parts." 

During  the  afternoon  the  gay  Jeannie  returns  and 
presents  to  me  a  tin  box.  It  is  filled  with  a  black 


232 

powder.  "Want  some?"  Well,  what  is  it?  She 
greets  my  ignorance  with  shrieks  of  laughter.  In 
a  trice  half  a  dozen  girls  have  left  their  spooling 
and  cluster  around  me. 

"She  ain't  never  seen  it ! "  and  the  little  creature 
fills  her  mouth  with  the  powder  which  she  keeps 
under  her  tongue.  "It  is  snuff!  " 

They  all  take  it,  old  and  young,  even  the  small- 
est children.  Their  mouths  are  brown  with  it; 
their  teeth  are  black  with  it.  They  take  it 
and  smell  it  and  carry  it  about  under  their 
tongues  all  day  in  a  black  wad,  spitting  it  all 
over  the  floor.  Others  "dip,"  going  about  with 
the  long  sticks  in  their  mouths.  The  air  of  the  room 
is  white  with  cotton,  although  the  spool-room  is 
perhaps  the  freest .  These  little  particles  are  breathed 
into  the  nose,  drawn  into  the  lungs.  Lung  disease 
and  pneumonia — consumption — are  the  constant, 
never-absent  scourge  of  the  mill  village.  The  girls 
expectorate  to  such  an  extent  tjhat  the  floor  is 
nauseous  with  it;  the  little  girls  practise  spitting 
and  are  adepts  at  it. 

Over  there  is  a  woman  of  sixty,  spooling;  behind 
the  next  side  is  a  child,  not  younger  than  eight, 
possibly,  but  so  small  that  she  has  to  stand  on  a 
box  to  reach  her  side.  Only  the  very  young  girls 
show  any  trace  of  buoyancy;  the  older  ones  have 
accepted  with  more  or  less  complaint  the  limitation 
of  their  horizons.  They  are  drawn  from  the  hill 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     233 

district  with  traditions  no  better  than  the  loneliness, 
desertion  and  inexperience  of  the  fever-stricken 
mountains  back  of  them.  They  are  illiterate,  • 
degraded ;  the  mill  has  been  their  widest  experience ; 
and  all  their  tutelage  is  the  intercourse  of  girl  to  girl 
during  the  day  and  in  the  evenings  the  few  moments 
before  they  go  to  bed  in  the  mill-houses,  where  they 
either  live  at  home  with  parents  and  brothers  all 
working  like  themselves,  or  else  they  are  fugitive 
lodgers  in  a  boarding-house  or  a  hotel,  where  their 
morals  are  in  jeopardy  constantly.  As  soon  as  a 
girl  passes  the  age,  let  us  say  of  seventeen  or  eighteen, 
there  is  no  hesitation  in  her  reply  when  you  ask  her : 
"Do  you  like  the  mills?"  Without  exception  the 
answer  is,  "I  hate  them." 

Absorbed  with  the  novelty  of  learning  my  trade, 
the  time  goes  swiftly.  Yet  even  the  interest  and 
excitement  does  not  prevent  fatigue,  and  from 
12:45  to  6:45  seems  interminable  !  Even  when  the 
whistle  blows  we  are  not  all  free — Excelsior  is 
behindhand  with  her  production,  and  those  whom 
extra  pay  can  beguile  stay  on.  Maggie,  my  little 
teacher,  walks  with  me  toward  our  divided  destina- 
tions, her  quasi-home  and  mine. 

Neither  in  the  mill  nor  the  shoe-shops  did  I  take 
precaution  to  change  my  way  of  speaking — and  not 
once  had  it  been  commented  upon.  To-day  Maggie 
says  to  me : 

"I  reckon  you-all  is  'Piscopal?" 


234  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

"Why?" 

"Why,  you-all  talks  'Piscopal." 

So  much  for  a  tribute  to  the  culture  of  the  church. 

At  Jones'  supper  is  ready,  spread  on  a  bare 
board  running  the  length  of  the  room — a  bare  board 
supported  by  saw-horses ;  the  seats  are  boards  again, 
a  little  lower  in  height.  They  sag  in  the  middle 
threateningly.  One  plate  is  piled  high  with  fish — 
bones,  skin  and  flesh  all  together  in  one  odourous 
mass.  Salt  pork  graces  another  platter  and  hominy 
another.  I  am  alone  in  the  supper  room.  The 
guests,  landlord  and  landlady  are  all  absent.  Some 
one,  as  he  rushes  by  me,  gives  me  the  reason  for  the 
desertion : 

"They've  all  gone  to  see  the  fight;  all  the  white 
fellers  is  after  a  nigger." 

Through  the  window  I  can  see  the  fleeing  forms  of 
the  settlers — women,  sunbonnets  in  hand,  the  men 
hatless.  It  appears  that  all  the  world  has  turned 
out  to  see  what  lawless  excitement  may  be  in  store. 
The  whirling  dust  and  sand  in  the  distance  denote 
the  group  formed  by  the  Negro  and  his  pursuers. 
This,  standing  on  the  little  porch  of  my  lodging- 
house,  I  see  and  am  glad  to  find  that  the  chase  is 
fruitless.  The  black  man,  tortured  to  distraction, 
dared  at  length  to  rebel,  and  from  the  moment  that 
he  showed  spirit  his  life  was  not  worth  a  farthing, 
but  his  legs  were,  and  he  got  clear  of  Excelsior.  The 


THE   SOUTHERN  COTTON   MILLS     235 

lodgers  troop  back.  Molly,-  my  landlady's  niece, 
breathing  and  panting,  disheveled,  leads  the  proces- 
sion and  is  voluble  over  the  affair. 

"They-all  pester  a  po'r  nigger's  life  out  'er  him, 
ye'es,  they  dew  so  !  Ef  a  nigger  wants  ter  show  his 
manners  to  me,  why,  I  show  mine  to  him,"  she  said 
generously,  "and  ef  he's  a  mannerly  nigger,  why,  I 
ain't  got  nothin'  ag'in  him;  no,  sir,  I  suttenly  ain't !  " 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  broad  and  philan- 
thropic, how  generous  and  unusual  this  poor  mill 
girl's  standpoint  is  contrasted  with  the  sentiment 
of  the  people  with  which  she  moves. 

I  slip  into  my  seat  at  the  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  sagging  board  and  find  Molly  beside  me,  the  girl 
from  Excelsior  with  the  pretty  hair  on  the  other  side. 
The  host,  Mr.  Jones,  honours  the  head  of  the 
table,  and  "grandmaw"  waits  upon  us.  Opposite 
are  the  three  men  operatives,  flannel-s.hirted  and 
dirty.  The  men  are  silent  for  the  most  part,  and 
bend  over  their  food,  devouring  the  unpalatable  stuff 
before  them.  I  feel  convinced  that  if  they  were  not 
so  terribly  hungry  they  could  not  eat  it.  Jones 
discourses  affably  on  the  mill  question,  advising 
me  to  learn  "speeding,"  as  it  pays  better  and  is  the 
only  advanced  work  in  the  mill. 

Molly,  my  elbow-companion,  seems  to  take  up 
the  whole  broad  seat,  she  is  so  big  and  so  pervading; 
and  her  close  proximity — unwashed,  heavy  with 
perspiration  as  she  is,  is  not  conducive  to  appetite. 


236  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

She  is  full  of  news  and  chatter  and  becomes  the 
leading  spirit  of  the  meal. 

"  I  reckon  you-all  never  did  see  anything  like  the 
fight  to  the  mill  to-day." 

She  arouses  at  once  the  interest  of  even  the  dull 
men  opposite,  who  pause,  in  the  applying  of  their 
knives  and  forks,  to  hear. 

"Amanda  Wilcox  she  dun  tol'  Ida  Jacobs  that 
she'd  do  her  at  noon,  and  Ida  she  sarst  her  back. 
It  was  all  about  a  sport  * — Bill  James.  He's  been 
spo'tin'  Ida  Jacobs  these  three  weeks,  I  reckon, 
and  Amanda  got  crazy  over  it  and  'clared  she'd 
spile  her  game.  And  she  tol'  Ida  Jacobs  a  lie 
about  Bill — sayd  he'  been  spo'tin'  her  down  to  the 
Park  on  Sunday. 

"  Well,  sir,  the  whole  spinnin'-room  was  out  to 
see  what  they-all'd  do  at  noon,  and  they  jest  resh'd 
for  each  otfrer  like's  they  was  crazy;  and  one  man 
he  got  between  'em  and  sayd,  '  Now  the  gyrl  what 
spits  over  my  hand  first  can  begin  the  fight.' 

"They  both 'them  spit  right  into  each  other's 
faces,  they  did  so;  and  arter  that  yer  couldn't  get 
them  apart.  Ida  Jacobs  grabbed  Amanda  by  the 
ha'r  and  Amanda  hit  her  plump  in  the  chest  with 
her  fist.  They  was  suttenly  like  to  kill  each  other 
ef  the  men  hadn't  just  parted  them;  it  took  three 
men  to  part  'em." 

Her  story  was  much  appreciated. 

*A  beau. 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     237 

"  Ida  was  dun  fer,  I  can  tell  ye;  she  suttenly  was. 
She  can't  git  back  to  work  fer  days." 

The  spinning-room  is  the  toughest  room  in  the 
mill. 

After  supper  the  men  went  out  on  the  porch  with 
their  pipes  and  we  to  the  sitting-room,  where  Molly, 
the  story-teller,  seated  herself  in  a  comfortable  chair, 
her  feet  outstretched  before  her.  She  made  a  lap,  a 
generous  lap,  to  which  she  tried  to  beguile  the  baby, 
Letty.  Mrs.  White  had  disappeared. 

"  You-all  come  here  to  me,  Letty."  She  held  out 
her  large  dirty  hands  to  the  blue-eyed  waif.  In  its 
blue-checked  apron,  the  remains  of  fish  and  ham 
around  its  mouth,  its  large  blue  eyes  wandering 
from  face  to  face  in  search  of  the  pale  mother  who 
had  for  a  time  left  her,  Letty  stood  for  a  moment 
motionless  and  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"You-all  come  to  Molly  and  go  By-O." 

There  was  some  magic  in  that  word  that  at  long 
past  eight  charmed  the  eighteen-months'-old  baby. 
She  toddled  across  the  floor  to  the  mill-girl,  who 
lifted  her  tenderly  into  her  ample  lap.  The  big, 
awkward  girl,  scarcely  more  than  a  child  herself, 
uncouth,  untutored,  suddenly  gained  a  dignity  and 
a  grace  maternal — not  too  much  to  say  it,  she  had 
charm. 

Letty  leaned  her  head  against  Molly's  breast  and 
smiled  contentedly,  whilst  the  mill-girl  rocked  softly 
to  and  fro. 


238  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

"Shall  Molly  sing  By-O?" 

She  should.  The  little  face,  lifted,  declared  its 
request. 

"Letty  must  sing,  too,"  murmured  the  young 
girl.  "  Sing  By-O  !  We'll  all  sing  it  together." 

Letty  covered  her  eyes  with  one  hand  to  feign 
sleep  and  sang  her  two  words  sweetly,  "  By-O  ! 
By-O  !  "  and  Molly  joined  her.  Thus  they  rocked 
and  hummed,  a  picture  infinitely  touching  to  see.  . 

One  of  these  two  would  soon  be  an  unclaimed 
foundling  when  the  unknown  woman  had  faded  out 
of  existence.  The  other — who  can  say  how  to  her 
maternity  would  come ! 

In  the  room  where  we  sit  Jones'  wife  died  a 
few  weeks  before,  victim  to  pneumonia  that  all 
winter  has  scourged  the  town — "the  ketchin'  kind" 
—that  is  the  way  it  has  been  caught,  and  fatally  by 
many.* 

In  one  corner  stands  a  sewing  machine,  in  another 
an  organ — luxuries:  in  these  cases,  objects  of  art. 
They  are  bought  on  the  installment  plan,  and  some 
of  these  girls  pay  as  high  as  $100  for  the  organ  in 
monthly  payments  of  $4  at  a  time.  The  mill-girl  is 
too  busy  to  use  the  machine  and  too  ignorant  to  play 
the  organ. 

Jones  is  a  courteous  host.     His  lodgers  occupy 

*There  arc  no  statistics,  they  tell  me,  kept  of  births,  marriages 
or  deaths  in  this  State;  it  is  less  surprising  that  the  mill  village 
ha:  none. 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     239 

the  comfortable  seats,  whilst  he  perches  himself  on 
the  edge  of  a  straight  high-backed  chair  and  con- 
verses with  us,  not  lighting  his  pipe  until  urged, 
then  deprecatingly  smoking  in  little  smothered  puffs. 
I  feel  convinced  that  Jones  thinks  that  Massa- 
chusetts shoe-hands  are  a  grade  higher  in  the  social 
scale  than  South  Carolina  mill-girls !  Because, 
after  being  witness  more  than  once  to  my  morning 
and  evening  ablutions  on  the  back  steps,  he  said : 

"  Now,  I  am  goin'  to  dew  the  right  thing  by  you-all ; 
I'm  goin'  to  fix  up  a  wash-stand  in  that  there  loft." 
This  is  a  triumph  over  the  lax,  uncleanly  shiftlessness 
of  the  Southern  settlement.  Again: 

"You-all  must  of  had  good  food  whar  you  come 
from:  your  skin  shows  it;  'tain't  much  like  hyar- 
'bouts.  Why,  I'd  know  a  mill-hand  anywhere,  if  I 
met  her  at  the  North  Pole — salla,  pale,  sickly." 

I  might  have  added  for  him,  deathlike,  .  .  . 
skeleton,  .  .  .  doomed.  But  I  listen,  rocking 
in  the  best  chair,  whilst  Mrs.  White  glides  in  from 
the  kitchen  and,  unobserved,  takes  her  place  on  a 
little  low  chair  by  the  sewing  machine  behind  Jones. 
Her  baby  rocks  contentedly  in  Molly's  arms. 

Jones  continues :  "I  worked  in  the  mill  fifteen 
years.  I  have  done  a  little  of  all  jobs,  I  reckon,  and 
I  ain't  got  no  use  for  mill-work.  If  they'd  pay  me 
fifty  cents  a  side  to  run  the  'speeders'  I'd  go  in  fer 
an  hour  or  two  now  and  then.  Why,  I  sell  sewing 
machines  and  organs  to  the  mill-hands  all  over  the 


240  THE  WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

country.  I  make  $60  a  month,  and  I  touch  all  my 
money,"  he  said  significantly.  "  It's  the  way  to  do. 
A  man  don't  feel  no  dignity  unless  he  does  handle 
his  own  money,  if  it's  ten  cents  or  ten  dollars."  He 
then  explains  the  corporation's  methods  of  paying 
its  slaves.  Some  of  the  hands  never  touch  their 
money  from  month's  end  to  month's  end.  Once  in 
two  weeks  is  pay-day.  A  woman  has  then  worked 

*  122  hours.     The  corporation  furnishes  her  house. 

*  There  is  the  rent  to  be  paid;  there  are  also  the 
corporation  stores  from  which  she  has  been  getting 
her  food  and   coal    and  what  gewgaws  the  cheap 
stuff  on  sale  may  tempt  her  to  purchase.     There  is  a 

.      book  of  coupons  issued  by  the  mill  owners  which  are 

as  good  as  gold.     It  is  good  at  the  stores,  good  for 

• 

the  rent,  and  her  time  is  served  out  in  pay  for  this 

*  representative    currency.     This    is    of    course    not 
,       obligatory,  but  many  of  the  operatives  avail  them- 
.      selves  or  bind  themselves  by  it.     When  the  people 

are  ill,  Jones  says,  they  are  docked  for  wages. 
When,  for  indisposition  or  fatigue,  they  knock  a  day 
off,  there  is  a  man,  hired  especially  for  this  purpose, 
who  rides  from  house  to  house  to  find  out  what  is  the 
matter  with  them,  to  urge  them  to  rise,  and  if  they 
are  not  literally  too  sick  to  move,  they  are  hounded 
out  of  their  beds  and  back  to  their  looms. 

Jones  himself,  mark  you,  is  emancipated !  He 
has  set  himself  free;  but  he  is  still  a  too-evident 
although  a  very  innocent  partisan  of  the  corporation. 


"THE  SOUTHERN  MILL  HAND'S  FACE  is  UNIQUE,  A  FEARFUL  TYPE 


THE   SOUTHERN  COTTON   MILLS     241 

"  I  think,"  he  says,  "that  the  mill-hand  is  meaner 
to  the  corporation  than  the  corporation  is  to  «the 
mill-hand." 

"Why?" 

"Why,  they  would  strike  for  shorter  hours  and 
better  pay." 

Unconsciously  with  one  word  he  condemns  his 
own  cause. 

"What's  the  use  of  these  hyar  mill-hands  tryin'  to 
fight  corporations?  Why,  Excelsior  is  the  biggest 
mill  under  one  roof  in  the  world ;  its  capital  is  over  a 
million;  it  has  24,500  spindles.  The  men  that  run 
these  mills  have  got  all  their  stuff  paid  for ;  they've 
got  piles  of  money.  What  do  they  care  for  a  few 
penniless  lot  of  strikers  ?  They  can  shut  down  and 
not  feel.  it.  Why,  these  hyar  people  might  just  as 
well  fight  against  a  stone  wall." 

The  wages  of  these  people,  remember,  pay 
Jones  for  the  organs  upon  which  they  cannot  play 
and  the  machines  which  they  cannot  use.  His  home 
is  a  mill  corporation  house ;  he  makes  a  neat  sum  by 
lodging  the  hands.  He  has  fetched  down  from  the 
hills  Molly,  his  own  niece,  to  work  for  him.  He 
perforce  will  speak  well.  I  do  not  blame  him. 

He  is  by  all  means  the  most  respectable-looking 
member  of  the  colony.  He  wears  store  clothes ;  he 
dresses  neatly ;  he  is  shaven,  brushed  and  washed. 

"  Don't  you  let  the  mill  hands  discourage  you  with 
lies  about  the  mill.  Any  of  'em  would  be  jealous  of 


242  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

you-all."  Then  he  warns,  again  forced  to  plead  for 
another  side:  "You-all  won't"  come  out  as  you  go 
in,  I  tell  you  !  You're  the  picture  of  health.  Why, ' ' 
he  continues,  a  little  later,  "you  ain't  got  no  idea 
how  light-minded  the  mill-girl  is.  Why,  in  the  sum- 
mer time  she'll  trolley  four  or  five  miles  to  a  dance- 
hall  they've  got  down  to  -  and  dance  there 

till  four  o'clock — come  home  just  in  time  to  get  into 
the  mills  at  5:45."  Which  fact  convinces  me  of 
nothing  but  that  the  women  are  still,  despite  their 
condition  and  their  white  slavery,  human  beings, 
and  many  of  them  are  young  human  beings  (Thank 
God,  for  it  is  a  prophecy  for  their  future !)  not  yet 
crushed  to  the  dumb  endurance  of  beasts. 

Rather  early  I  bid  them  all  good-night  and  climb 
the  attic  stairs  to  my  loft.  There  the  three  beds 
arrayed  in  soggy  striped  comforters  greet  me.  Old 
boots  and  downtrodden  shoes  are  thrown  into  the 
corners  and  the  lines  of  clothing  already  describe 
fantastic  shapes  in  the  dark,  suggesting  pendant 
sinister  figures.  Windows  are  large,  thank  Heaven  ! 
In  the  mill  district  the  air  is  heavy,  singularly 
lifeless ;  the  night  is  warm  and  stifling. 

Close  to  an  old  trunk  I  sit  down  with  a  slip  of  paper 
on  my  knee  and  try  to  take  a  few  notes.  But  no 
sooner  have  I  begun  to  write  than  a  step  on  the  stair 
below  announces  another  comer.  Before  annoyance 
can  deepen  too  profoundly  the  big,  awkward  form  of 
the  landlady's  niece  slouches  into  sight.  Sheepishly 


THE   SOUTHERN  COTTON   MILLS     243 

she  comes  across  the  room  to  me — sits  down  on  the 
nearest  bed.  Molly's  costume  is  typical:  a  dark 
cotton  wrapper  whose  colours  have  become  indistinct 
in  the  stains  of  machinery  oil  and  perspiration.  The 
mill  girl  boasts  no  coquetry  of  any  kind  around  her 
neck  and  waist,  but  her  headdress  is  a  tribute  to 
feminine  vanity !  Compactly  screwed  curl  papers, 
dozens  of  them,  accentuate  the  hard,  unlovely  lines 
of  her  face  and  brow.  Her  features  are  coarse, 
heavy  and  square,  but  her  eyes  are  clear,  frank  and 
kind.  She  has  an  appealing,  friendly  expression; 
Molly  is  a  distinctly  whole-souled,  nice  creature. 
One  elbow  sinks  in  the  bed  and  she  cradles  her 
crimped  head  in  her  large,  dirty  hand. 

"My,  ef  I  could  write  as  fast  as  you-all  I'd  write 
some  letters,  I  reckon.  Ust  ter  write ;  like  it  good 
enough,  tew;  but  I  ain't  wrote  in  months.  I  was 
thinkin'  th'  other  day  ef  I  didn't  take  out  the 
pencile  I'd  dun  forgit  how  to  spell." 

Without  the  window  through  which  she  gazes  is 
seen  the  pale  night  sky  and  in  the  heavens  hangs  the 
thread  of  a  moon.  Its  light  is  unavailing  alongside 
of  the  artificial  moon — an  enormous  electric  light. 
This  lifts  its  brilliant,  dazzling  circumference  high  in 
the  centre  of  the  mill  street.  I  have  but  to  move  a 
trifle  aside  from  the  window  coping's  shelter  to 
receive  a  blinding  blaze.  But  Molly  has  been 
subtle  enough  to  discover  the  natural  beauty  of  the 
night.  She  sees,  curiously  enough,  past  this  modern 


244  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

illumination:  the  young  moon  has  charm  for  her. 
"Ain't  it  a  pretty  night?"  she  asks  me.  Its  beauty 
has  not  much  chance  to  enhance  this  room  and  the 
crude  forms,  but  it  has  awakened  something  akin  to 
sentiment  in  the  breast  of  this  young  savage. 

"  I  don't  guess  ever  any  one  gets  tired  of  hearing 
sweet  music*  does  you-all?" 

"What  is  the  nicest  music  you  have  ever  heard, 
Molly?" 

"  Why,  a  gui-taar  an'  a  mandolin.  It's  so  sweet ! 
I  could  sit  for  hours  an'  hyar  'em  pick."  Her  curl- 
paper head  wags  in  enthusiasm. 

"  Up  to  the  hills,  from  whar  I  cum,  I  ust  ter  hyar 
'em  a  serenadin'  of  some  gyrl  an'  I  ust  ter  set  up  in 
bed  and  lis'en  tel  it  died  out;  it  warn't  for  me,  tho* !" 

"Didn't  they  ever  serenade  you?" 

"  No,  ma'am',  I  don't  pay  no  'tention  to  spo'tin'. " 

Without,  the  moon's  slender  thread  holds  ih  a 
silvery  circle  the  half -defined  misty  ball  that  shall 
soon  be  full  moon.  Thank  heavens  I  shall  not  see 
this  golden  globe  form,  wane,  decline  in  this  town, 
forgotten  of  gods  and  men !  But  the  woman  at  my 
side  must  see  it  mark  its  seasons ;  she  is  inscrutably 
part  of  the  colony  devoted  to  unending  toil !  Here 
all  she  has  brought  of  strong  youth  shall  fade  and 
perish;  womanly  sentiment  be  crushed;  die  out  in 
sterility ;  or  worse,  coarsen  to  the  animal  like  to  those 
whose  companion  she  is  forced  to  be. 

*The  Southern  term  for  stringed  instruments. 


THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON  MILLS     245 

"  I  live  to  the  Rockies,  an'  Uncle  Tom  he  come  up 
after  me  and  carried  me  down  hyar.  My  auntie  died 
two  weeks  ago  in  the  livin'-room;  she  had  catchin' 
pneumonia.  I  tuk  care  of  her  all  through  her 
sickness,  did  every  mite  for  her,  and  there  was 
bo'ders,  tew — I  guess  half  a  dozen  of  'em — and  I 
cooked  and  washed  and  everything  for  'em  all.  When 
she  died  I  went  to  work  in  the  mill.  Say,  I  reckon 
you-all  didn't  see  my  new  hat?"  It  was  fetched, 
done  up  with  care  in  paper.  She  displayed  it,  a 
white  straw  round  hat,  covered  with  roses.  At 
praise  of  it  and  admiration  the  girl  flushed  with 
pleasure. 

"My,  you  dew  like  it?  Why,  I  didn't  think  it 
pretty,  much.  Uncle  Tom  dun  buy  it  for  me." 

She  gives  all  her  wages  to  Uncle  Tom,  who  in  turn 
brings  her  from  time  to  time  such  stimulus  to  labour 
as  some  pretty  feminine  thing  like  this.  This  shall 
crown  Molly's  hair  freed  from  the  crimpers  when  the 
one  day  of  the  week,  Sunday,  comes !  Not  from 
Sunday  till  Sunday  again  are  those  hair  crimpers 
unloosed. 

Despite  Uncle  Tom's  opposition  to  mill  work  for 
women,  despite  his  cognizance  of  the  unhealthfulness 
of  the  mills,  he  knew  a  thing  or  two  when  he  put  his 
strapping  innocent  niece  to  work  thirteen  hours  a 
day  and  pocketed  himself  the  spoils. 

"I  can't  go  to  bade  awful  early,  because  I  don't 
sleep  ef  I  do;  I'm  too  tired  to  sleep.  When  I  feel 


246  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

real  sick  I  tries  to  stay  home  a  day,  and  then  the 
overseer  he  rides  around  and  worries  me  to  git  up.  I 
declare  ef  I  wouldn't  near  as  soon  git  up  as  to  be 
roused  up.  (They  don't  give  you  no  peace,  rousing 
you  out  of  bed  when  you  can  scarcely  stand.  I 
suttenly  dew  feel  bade  to-night;  I  suttenly  can't 
scarcely  get  to  bed  !" 

Here  into  our  discourse,  mounting  the  stairs,  comes 
the  pale  mother  and  her  little  child.  This  ghost, 
of  a  woman,  wedding-ringless,  who  called  herself 
Mrs.  White,  could  scarcely  crawl  to  her  bed.  She 
was  whiter  than  the  moon  and  as  slender.  Molly's 
bed  is  close  to  mine.  The  night  toilet  of  this  girl 
consisted  of  her  divesting  herself  of  her  shoes, 
stockings  and  her  cotton  wrapper,  then  in  all  the 
other  garments  she  wore  during  the  day  she  turned 
herself  into  bed,  nightgownless,  unwashed. 

Mrs.  White  undressed  her  child,  giving  it  very 
good  care.  It  was  a  tmy  creature,  small-boned 
and  meager.  Every  time  I  looked  over  at  it  it 
smiled  appealingly,  touchingly.  Finally  when  she 
went  downstairs  to  the  pump  to  get  a  drink 
of  water  for  it,  I  went  over  and  in  her  absence 
stroked  the  little  hand  and  arm:  such  a  small  hand 
and  such  an  infinitesimal  arm !  Unused  to  attention 
and  the  touch,  but  not  in  the  least  frightened,  Letty 
extended  her  miniature  member  and  looked  up  at 
me  in  marvel.  Mrs.  White  on  her  return  made 
herself  ready  for  the  night.  She  said  in  her  frail 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     247 

voice:  "Letty'sa  powerful  hand  for  vegetubbles, 
and  she  eats  everything." 

Memory  of  the  ham  and  the  putrid  fish  I  had  seen 
this  eighteen-months-old  child  devour  not  an  hour 
ago  came  to  my  mind. 

Mrs.  White  let  down  her  hair — a  nonchalance  that 
Molly  had  not  been  guilty  of.  This  woman's  hair 
was  no  more  than  a  wisp.  It  stood  out  thin,  wiry, 
almost  invisible  in  the  semilight.  This  was  the 
extent  of  her  toilet.  She  slipped  out  of  her  shoes, 
but  she  did  not  even  take  off  her  dress.  Then  she 
turned  in  by  her  child.  She  was  very  ill ;  it  was  plain 
to  be  seen.  Death  was  fast  upon  this  woman's 
track;  it  should  clutch  her  inevitably  within  the  next 
few  weeks  at  most,  if  that  emaciated  body  had 
resistance  for  so  long.  Her  languor  was  slow  and 
indicative,  her  gray,  ashen  face  like  death  itself. 

"Lie  still,  Letty,"  she  whispers  to  the  baby; 
"  don't  touch  mother — slje  can't  stand  it  to-night." 

My  mattress  was  straw  and  billowy,  the  bed 
sheetless,  and  under  the  weight  of  the  cotton  com- 
forter I  tried  to  compose  myself.  There  were  five 
of  us  in  the  little  loft.  My  bedfellow  was  peaceful 
and  lay  still,  too  tired  to  do  anything  else.  In  front 
of  me  was  the  open  window,  through  which  shone 
the  electric  light,  blatant  and  insistent;  behind  this, 
the  clock  of  Excelsior — brightly  lit  and  incandescent 
—glared  in  upon  us,  giant  hands  going  round,  seem- 
ing to  threaten  the  hour  of  dawn  and  frightening 


248  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

sleep  and  mocking,  bugbearing  the  short  hours 
which  the  working-woman  might  claim  for  repose. 

It  was  well  on  to  nine  o'clock  and  the  mills  were 
working  overtime.  Molly  turned  restlessly  on  her 
bed  and  murmured,  "I  suttenly  dew  feel  bad 
to-night."  A  little  later  I  heard  her  say  over  to 
herself:  "  My,  I  forgot  to  say  my  prayers."  She  was 
the  sole  member  of  the  loft  to  whom  sleep  came ;  it 
came  to  her  soon.  I  lay  sleepless,  watching  the 
clock  of  Excelsior.  The  ladder  staircase  openly  led 
to  the  kitchen:  there  was  no  door,  no  privacy 
possible  to  our  quarters,  and  the  house  was  full 
of  men. 

A  little  later  Letty  cries:  "A  drink,  a  drink!" 
and  the  tone  of  the  mother,  who  replies,  is  full  of 
patience,  but  fuller  still  of  suffering, 

"  Hush,  Letty,  hush !  Mother's  too  sick  to  get 
it."  But  the  child  continues  to  fret  and  plead. 
Finally  with  a  groan  Mrs. , White  stretches  out  her 
hand  and  gets  the  tin  mug  of  water,  of  that  vile  and 
dirty  water  which  has  brought  death  to  so  many  in 
the  mill  village.  The  child  drinks  it  greedily.  I 
can  hear  it  suck  the  fluid.  Then  the  woman  herself 
staggers  to  her  feet,  rises  with  dreadful  illness  upon 
her,  and  all  through  the  hot  stuffy  night  in  the  close 
air  of  the  loft  growing  momentarily  more  fetid, 
unwholesome,  intolerable — she  rises  to  be  violently 
sick  over  and  over  again.  It  seems  an  indefinite 
number  of  times  to  one  who  lies  awake  listening, 


THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON  MILLS     249 

and  must  seem  unceasing  to  the  poor  wretch  who 
returns  to  her  bed  only  to  rise  again. 

She  groans  and  suffers  and  bites  her  exclamations 
short.  Twice  she  goes  to  the  window  and  by  the 
light  of  the  electric  lamp  pours  laudanum  into  a 
glass  and  takes  it  to  still  her  pain  and  her  need. 

The  odours  become  so  nauseous  that  I  am  fain  to 
cover  my  face  and  head.  The  child  fed  on  salt  ham 
and  pork  is  restless  and  thirsty  all  night  and  begs  for 
water  at  short  intervals.  At  last  the  demand  is  too 
much  for  the  poor  agonized  mother — she  takes 
refuge  in  silencing  unworthy,  and  to  which  one  feels 
her  gentleness  must  be  forced.  "  Hark  !  The  cat  will 
get  you,  Letty !  See  that  cat?"  And  the  feline 
horror  in  nameless  form,  evoked  in  an  awe-inspiring 
whisper,  controls  the  little  creature,  who  murmurs, 
sobs  and  subsides. 

What  spirit  deeper  than  her  character  has  hitherto 
displayed  stirs  the  mill-girl  in  the  bed  next  to  me  ? 
Possibly  the  tragedy  in  the  other  bed;  possibly  the 
tragedy  of  her  own  youth.  At  all  events,  whatever 
burden  is  on  her,  her  cross  is  heavy  !  She  murmurs 
in  her  dreams,  in  a  voice  more  mature,  more  serious 
than  any  tone  of  hers  has  indicated : 

"Oh,  my  God!" 

It  is  a  strange  cry — call — appeal.  It  rings  solemn 
to  me  as  I  lie  and  watch  and  pity.  Hours  of  night 
which  should  be  to  the  labourer  peaceful,  full  of 
repose  after  the  day,  drag  along  from  nine  o'clock, 


250  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

when  we  went  to  bed,  till  three.  At  three  Mrs. 
White  falls  into  a  doze.  I  envy  her.  Over  me  the 
vermin  have  run  riot ;  I  have  killed  them  on  my  neck 
and  my  arms.  When  it  seemed  that  flesh  and  blood 
must  succumb,  and  sleep,  through  sheer  pity,  take 
hold  of  us,  a  stirring  begins  in  the  kitchen  below 
which  in  its  proximity  seems  a  part  of  the  very 
room  we  occupy.  The  landlady,  Mrs.  Jones,  has 
arisen ;  she  is  making  her  fire.  At  a  quarter  to  four 
Mrs.  Jones  begins  her  frying ;  at  four  a  deep,  blue, 
ugly  smoke  has  ascended  the  stairway  to  us.  This 
smoke  is  thick  with  odours — the  odour  of  bad  grease 
and  bad  meat.  Its  cloud  conceals  the  beds  from  me 
and  I  can  scarcely  pierce  its  curtain  to  look  through 
the  window.  It  settles  down  over  the  beds  like  a 
creature;  it  insinuates  itself  into  the  clothes  that 
hang  upon  the  wall.  So  permeating  is  it  that  the 
odour  of  fried  food  clings  to  everything  I  wear  and 
haunts  me  all  day.  I  can  hear  the  sputtering  of 
the  saucepan  and  the  fall  and  flap  of  the  pieces  of 
meat  as  she  drops  them  in  to  fry.  /  know  what  they 
are,  for  I  have  seen  them  the  night  before — great 
crimson  bits  of  flesh  torn  to  pieces  and  arranged 
in  rows  by  the  fingers  of  a  ragged  Negro  as  he 
crouched  by  the  kitchen  table. 

This  preparation  continues  for  an  hour:  it  takes 
an  abnormally  long  time  to  cook  abnormally  bad 
food  !  Long  before  five  the  clock  of  Excelsior  rings 
and  the  cry  of  the  mill  is  heard  waking  whomsoever 


THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON   MILLS     251 

might  be  lucky  enough  to  be  asleep.  Mrs.  Jones 
calls  Molly.  "Molly!"  The  girl  murmurs  and 
turns.  "Come,  you-all  git  up;  you  take  so  powerful 
long  to  dress  yo'self !"  Long  to  dress  !  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  see  how  that  would  be  possible.  She  rises 
reluctantly,  yawning,  sighing;  lifts  her  scarcely 
rested  body,  puts  on  her  stockings  and  her  shoes  and 
the  dirty  wrapper.  Her  hair  is  untouched,  her  face 
unwashed,  but  she  is  ready  for  the  day  !  Mrs.  White 
has  actually  fallen  asleep,  the  small  roll,  her  baby, 
curled  up  close  to  her  back. 

Molly's  summons  is  mine  as  well.  I  am  a  mill- 
hand  with  her.  I  rise  and  repeat  my  ablutions  of 
the"  evening  before.  Unhooking  the  tin  basin, 
possessing  myself  of  a  bit  of  soap  on  the  kitchen 
stairs,  I  wash  my  face  and  hands.  Although  the 
water  is  dipped  from  the  pail  on  which  a  scum  has 
formed,  still  it  is  so  much  more  cool,  refreshing  and 
stimulating  than  anything  that  has  come  in  contact 
with  me  for  hours  that  it  is  a  positive  pleasure. 


THE    MILL 

By  this  time  the  morning  has  found  us  all,  and 
unlovely  it  seems  as  regarded  from  this  shanty 
environment.  At  4:50  Excelsior  has  shrieked  every 
settler  awake.  At  half -past  five  we  have  breakfasted 
and  I  pass  out  of  the  house,  one  of  the  half-dozen 
who  seek  the  mill  from  our  doors. 


252  THE   WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

We  fall  in  with  the  slowly  moving,  straggling  file, 
receiving  additions  from  each  tenement  as  we  pass. 

Beside  me  walks  a  boy  of  fourteen  in  brown 
earth-coloured  clothes.  He  is  so  thin  that  his 
bones  threaten  to  pierce  his  vestments.  He 
has  a  slender  visage  of  the  frailness  I  have 
learned  to  know  and  distinguish:  it  represents 
the  pure  American  type  of  people  known  as 
"poor  white  trash,"  and  with  whose  blood  has 
been  scarcely  any  admixture  of  foreign  element.  A 
painter  would  call  his  fine,  sensitive  face  beautiful: 
it  is  the  face  of  a  martyr.  His  hat  of  brown  felt 
slouches  over  bright  red  hair ;  one  cufHess  hand,  lank 
and  long,  hangs  down  inert,  the  other  sleeve  falls 
loose;  he  is  one-armed.  His  attitude  and  gait 
express  his  defrauded  existence.  Cotton  clings  to 
his  clothes ;  his  shoes,  nearly  falling  off  his  feet,  are 
red  with  clay  stains.  I  greet  him;  he  is  shy  and 
surprised,  but  returns  the  salutation  and  keeps  step 
with  me.  He  is  "from  the  hills,"  an  orphan,  per- 
fectly friendless.  He  boards  with  a  lot  of  men; 
evidently  their  companionship  has  not  been  any 
solace  to  him,  for,  as  he  is  alone  this  day,  I  see  him 
always  alone. 

He  works  from  5:45  to  6:45,  with  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  at  noon,  and  has  his  Saturday  afternoons 
and  his  Sundays  free.  He  is  destitute  of  the  quality 
we  call  joy  and  has  never  known  comfort.  He 
makes  fifty  cents  a  day;  he  has  no  education,  no  way 


THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON   MILLS     253 

of  getting  an  education;  he  is  almost  a  man,  crippled 
and  condemned.  At  my  exclamation  when  he  tells 
me  the  sum  of  his  wages  he  looks  up  at  me ;  a  faint 
likeness  to  a  smile  comes  about  his  thin  lips:  "It 
keeps  me  in  existence!"  he  says  in  a  slow  drawl.  He 
used  just  those  words. 

At  the  different  doors  of  the  mill  we  part.  He  is 
not  u/iconscious  of  my  fellowship  with  him,  that  I 
feel  and  know.  A  kindling  light  has  come  across  his 
face.  "Good  luck  to  you!"  I  bid  him,  and  he  lifts 
his  head  and  his  bowed  shoulders  and  with  some- 
thing like  warmth  replies,  "I  hope  you-all  will  have 
good  luck,  tew." 

As  we  come  into  the  spooling-room  from  the  hot 
air  without  the  mill  seems  cold.  I  go  over  to  a  green 
box  destined  for  the  refuse  of  the  floors  and  sit 
down,  waiting  for  work.  On  this  day  I  am  to  have  my 
own  "side" — lam  a  full-fledged  spooler.  Excelsior 
has  gotten  us  all  out  of  our  beds  before  actual  day- 
light, but  that  does  not  mean  we  are  to  have  a 
chance  to  begin  our  money-making  piece-work  job 
at  once !  ' ' Thar  ain't  likely  to  be  no  yarn  for  an  hour 
to-day,"  Maggie  tells  me.  She  is  no  less  dirty  than 
yesterday,  or  less  smelly,  but  also  she  is  no  less  kind. 

"I  reckon  you-all  are  goin'  to  make  a  remarkable 
spooler,"  she  cheers  me  on.  "You'll  get  tired  out 
at  first,  but  then  I  gets  tired,  tew,  right  along,  only 
it  ain't  the  same  kind — it's  not  so  sharp'1  Her 
distinction  is  clever. 


254  THE   WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

Across  the  room  at  one  of  the  "drawing-in  frames" 
I  see  the  figure  of  an  unusally  pretty  girl  with  curly 
dark  hair.  She  bends  to  her  job  in  front  of  the 
frame  she  runs ;  it  has  the  effect  of  tapestry,  of  that 
work  with  which  women  of  another — oh,  of  quite 
another  class — amuse  their  leisure,  with  which  they 
kill  their  time.  "Drawing-in,"*  although  a  sitting 
job,  is  considered  to  be  a  back-breaker.  The,  girls 
are  ambitious  at  this  work ;  they  make  good  wages. 
They  sit  close  to  their  frames,  bent  over,  for  twelve 
hours  out  of  the  day.  This  girl  whom  I  see  across 
the  floor  of  the  Excelsior  is  an  object  to  rest  the  eyes 
upon;  she  is  a  beauty.  There  is  not  much  beauty 
of  any  kind  or  description  in  sight.  Maggie  has 
noticed  her  esthetic  effect.  "You-all  seen  that 
girl;  she's  suttenly  prob'ly  am  peart" 

She  is  a  new  hand  from  a  distance.  This  is  her 
first  day.  What  miserable  chance  has  brought  her 
here  ?  If  she  stays  the  mill  will  claim  her  body  and 
soul.  The  overseer  has  marked  her  out ;  he  hovers 
in  the  part  of  the  room  where  she  works.  She  has 
colour  and  her  difference  to  her  pale  companions  is 
marked.  Excelsior  will  not  leave  those  roses  unwith- 
ered.  I  can  foretell  the  change  as  yellow  unhealth- 
fulness  creeps  upon  her  cheeks  and  the  red  forever 
goes.  There  are  no  red  cheeks  here,  not  one.  She 
has  chosen  a  sitting-down  job  thinking  it  easier.  I 
saw  her  lean  back,  put  her  hands  around  her  waist 
*A  good  drawer-in  makes  $1.25  a  day. 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     255 

and  rest,  or  try  to,  after  she  has  bent  four  hours 
over  her  close  task.  I  go  over  to  her. 

"They  say  it's  awful  hard  on  the  eyes,  but  they 
tell  me,  too,  that  I'll  be  a  remarkable  fine  hand." 

I  saw  her  apply  for  work,  and  saw,  too,  the  man's 
face  as  he  looked  at  her  when  she  asked:  "Got  any 
work?" 

"We've  got  plenty  of  work  for  a  good-looking 
woman  like  you,"  he  said  with  significance,  and  took 
pains  to  place  her  within  his  sight. 

The  yarn  has  come  in,  and  I  return  to  my  part  of 
the  mill ;  Maggie  flies  to  her  spools  and  leaves  me  to 
seek  my  distant  place  far  away  from  her.  I  set  my 
work  in  order;  whilst  my  back  is  turned  some  girl 
possesses  herself  of  my  hand-harness.  Mine  was  a 
new  one,  and  the  one  she  leaves  for  me  is  broken. 
This  delays,  naturally,  and  the  overseer,  after  prov- 
ing to  his  satisfaction  that  I  am  hampered,  gets  me  a 
new  one  and  I  set  to  work. 

Many  of  the  older  hands  come  without  breakfast, 
and  a  little  later  tin  pails  or  paper  parcels  appear. 
These  operatives  crouch  down  in  a  Turkish  fashion 
at  the  machines'  sides  and  take  a  hasty  mouthful 
of  their  unwholesome,  unpleasant-looking  food, 
eating  with  their  fingers  more  like  animals  than 
human  beings.  By  eight  the  full  steam  power  is 
on/  to  judge  by  the  swift  turning,  the  strong  resist- 
ance of  the  spools.  Not  one  of  the  women  near  me 
but  is  degrading  to  look  upon  and  odourous  to 


256  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

approach.  These  creatures,  ill  clad,  with  matted, 
frowsy  hair  and  hands  that  look  as  though  they  had 
never,  never  been  washed,  smell  like  the  byre. 
As  for  the  children,  I  must  pass  them  by  in  this 
recital.  The  tiny,  tiny  children !  The  girls  are 
profane,  contentious,  foul-mouthed.  There  is  much 
partisanship  and  cliqueism;  you  can  tell  it  by  the 
scowls  and  the  low,  insulting  words  as  an  enemy 
passes.  To  protect  the  hair  from  the  flying  pieces 
of  cotton  the  more  particular  women,  and  often- 
times children  as  well,  wear  felt  hats  pulled  down 
well  over  the  eyes.  The  cotton,  indeed,  thistledown- 
like,  flies  without  cessation  through  the  air — spins 
off  from  the  spools ;  it  rises  and  floats,  falling  on  the 
garments  and  in  the  hair,  entering  the  nostrils  and 
throat  and  lungs.  I  repeat,  the  expectoration, 
the  coughing  and  the  throat-cleaning  is  constant. 
Over  there  two  girls  have  taken  advantage  of  a 
wait  for  yarn  to  go  to  sleep  on  the  floor ;  their  heads 
are  pillowed  on  each  others'  shoulders;  they  rest 
against  a  cotton  bale.  Maggie  wanders  over  to  me  to 
see  "how  you-all  is  gettin'  on."  "Tired  ?"  "Well,  I 
reckon  I  am.  Thank  God  we  get  out  in  a  little  while 
now." 

One  afternoon  I  went  up  to  the  loft  to  rest  a  few 
moments  before  going  to  the  mill.  Mrs.  White  was 
sitting  on  her  bed,  a  slender  figure  in  the  blue-checked 
wrapper  she  always  wore.  Her  head  was  close  to 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     257 

the  window,  her  silhouette  in  the  light,  pale  and 
slender.  "I  wa'n't  sick  when  I  come  hyar,  but  them 
mills !  They's  suttinly  tew  hyard  on  a  woman ! 
Weave-room  killed  me,  I  guess.  I  couldn't  hyar  at 
all  when  I  come  out  and  scarcely  could  stan'  on  ma 
feet  when  I  got  home.  Tew  tyred  to  eat,  tew ;  and 
the  water  hyar  is  regularly  pisen ;  hev  you-all  seen 
it  ?  It's  all  colours.  Doctor  done  come  to  see  me ; 
ain't  helpin'  me  any;  'pears  like  he-all  ain't  goin'  to 
come  no  mo' !" 

"If  you  have  a  husband,  why  don't  you  go  to  him 
and  let  him  care  for  you?" 

She  was  silent,  turning  her  wedding-ringless  hand 
over  and  over  on  her  lap :  the  flies  came  buzzing  in 
around  us,  and  in  the  near  distance  Excelsior 
buzzed,  the  loudest,  most  insistent  creature  on  this 
part  of  the  earth. 

"Seems  like  a  woman  ought  to  help  a  man — 
some,"  she  murmured.  Downstairs  Mrs.  Jones 
sums  her  up  in  a  few  words. 

"She-all  suttinly  ain't  no  'Mrs.1  in  the  world ! 
Calls  herself  'White.'  '  (The  intonation  is  not  to 
be  mistaken.)  "Pore  thing's  dyin' — knows  it,  tew  ! 
Come  hyar  to  die,  I  reckon.  She'll  die  right  up  thar 
in  that  baed,  tew.  Doctor  don't  come  no  mo'.  Know 
she  cayn't  pay  him  nothin'.  You-all  come  hyar 
to  grandmaw,  Letty !" 

The  child  around  whom  the  threads  of  existence 
are  weaving  fabric  more  intricate  than  any  woof  or 


258  THE  WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

warp  of  the  great  mills  goes  confidingly  to  the  old 
woman,  who  lifts  her  tenderly  into  her  arms.  With 
every  word  she  speaks  this  aged  creature  draws  her 
own  picture.  To  these  types  no  pen  save  Tolstoi's 
could  do  justice.  Mine  can  do  no  more  than  display 
them  by  faithfully  transcribing  their  simple  dialect- 
speech. 

"I  am  sixty-four  years  old,  an'  played  out.  Worked 
too  hyard.  Worked  every  day  since  I  was  a  child, 
and  when  I  wasn't  workin'  had  the  fevar.  Come  from 
the  hills  las'  month.  When  his  wife  dyde,  the  son 
he  come  an'  fetched  me  cross  the  river  to  help  him." 

How  has  she  lived  so  long  and  so  well,  with  life 
"so  hyard  on  her  "  ? 

"I  loved  my  husban',  yes,  ma'am,  I  regularly  loved 
him;  reckon  no  woman  didn't  ever  love  a  man  mo', 
and  he  loved  me,  tew,  jest  ez  much.  Seems  tho'  God 
couldn't  bayr  to  see  us-all  so  happy — couldn't  las' ; 
he  dyde." 

Mrs.  Jones'  figure  is  a  case  of  bones  covered  with 
a  brown  substance — you  could  scarcely  call  it  skin ; 
a  weather-beaten,  tanned  hide ;  nothing  more.  This 
human  statue,  ever  responsive  to  the  eternal  mould- 
ing, year  after  year  has  been  worked  upon  by  the 
titan  instrument,  Labour:  Struggle,  disease,  want. 
But  this  hill  woman  has  known  love.  It  has  trans- 
figured her,  illumined  her.  This  poor  deformed  body 
is  a  torch  only  for  an  immortal  flame.  I  know 
now  why  it  seems  good  to  be  near  her,  why  her 


THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON  MILLS     259 

eyes  are  inspired.  ...  I  rise  to  leave  her  and 
she  comes  forward  to  me,  puts  out  her  hand  first, 
then  puts  both  thin,  old  arms  about  me  and  kisses 
me. 

x 

In  speaking  of  the  settlement,  it  borders  on  the 
humourous  to  use  the  word  sanitation.  In  the 
mill  district,  as  far  as  my  observation  reached,  there 
is  none.  Refuse  not  too  vile  for  the  public  eye  is 
thrown  into  the  middle  of  the  streets  in  front  of  the 
houses.  The  general  drainage  is  performed  by 
emptying  pans  and  basins  and  receptacles  into  the 
backyards,  so  that  as  one  stands  at  the  back  steps 
of  one's  own  door  one  breathes  and  respires  the 
filth  of  half  a  dozen  shanties.  Decaying  vegetables, 
rags,  dirt  of  all  kinds  are  the  flowers  of  these  people, 
the  decorations  of  their  miserable  garden  patches. 
To  walk  through  Granton  (which  the  prospectus 
tells  us  is  well  drained)  is  to  evoke  nausea;  to 
inhabit  Granton  is  an  ordeal  which  even  necessity 
cannot  rob  of  its  severity. 

These  settlers,  habitants  of  dwellings  built  by 
finance  solely  for  the  purpose  of  renting,  are 
celebrated  for  their  immorals — "  a  rough,  lying, 
bad  lot."  "Oh,  the  mill-hands!"  .  .  .  Suffi- 
cient, expressive  designation.  Nevertheless,  these 
people,  simple,  direct  and  innocent,  display  quali- 
ties that  we  have  been  taught  are  enviable — a 
lack  of  curiosity,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  affairs  of 


260 

others,  a  warm  Southern  courtesy,  a  human 
kindliness.  I  found  these  people  degraded  because 
of  their  habits  and  not  of  their  tendencies,  which 
statement  I  can  justify;  whatever  may  be  their 
natural  instincts,  born,  nurtured  in  their  unlovely 
environment,  they  have  no  choice  but  to  fall  into 
the  usages  of  poverty  and  degradation.  They  have 
seen  nothing  with  which  to  compare  their  existences ; 
they  have  no  time,  no  means  to  be  clean,  and  no 
stimulus  to  be  decent. 

^  A  job  at  Granton  was  no  more  difficult  to  secure 
than  was  "  spoolin'  "  at  the  other  mill.  I  applied  one 
Saturday  noon,  when  Granton  was  silent  and  the 
operatives  within  their  doors  asleep,  for  the  most 
part,  leaving  the  village  as  deserted  as  it  is  on  a 
workday.  A  like  desolation  pervades  the  atrnos- 
phere  on  holiday  and  day  of  toil.  I  was  so  lucky  as 
'to  meet  a  shirt-sleeved  overseer  in  the  doorway. 
Preceding  him  were  two  ill-clad,  pale  children  of  nine 
and  twelve,  armed  with  a  long,  mop-like  broom  with 
which  their  task  was  to  sweep  the  cotton  from  the 
floors — cotton  that  resettled  eternally  as  soon  as  it 
was  brushed  away.  The  superintendent  regarded  me 
curiously,  I  thought  penetratingly,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  my  experience  I  feared  detection.  My 
dread  was  enhanced  by  the  loneliness,  the  law- 
lessness of  the  place,  the  risk  and  boldness  of  my 
venture. 

By  this  I  was  most  thoroughly   a   mill-girl   in 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     261 

appearance,  at  least ;  my  clothes  were  white  with 
cotton,  my  hair  far  from  tidy;  fatigue  and  listless- 
ness  unassumed  were  in  my  attitude.  I  had  not 
heard  the  Southern  dialect  for  so  long  not  to  be 
able  to  fall  into  it  with  little  effort.  I  told  him  I 
had  been  a  "spooler"  and  did  not  like  it — "  wanted 
to  spin."  He  listened  silently,  regarding  me  with 
interest  and  with  what  I  trembled  to  fear  was  dis- 
belief. I  desperately  pushed  back  my  sunbonnet 
and  in  Southern  drawl  begged  for  work. 

"Spinnin'?"  he  asked.  "What  do  you  want  to% 
spin  for?" 

He  was  a  Yankee,  his  accent  sharp  and  keen. 
How  clean  and  decent  and  capable  he  appeared,  the 
dark  mill  back  of  him;  shantytown,  vile,  dirty, 
downtrodden,  beside  him ! 

I  told  him  that  I  was  tired  of  spooling  and  knew  I 
could  make  more  by  something  else. 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets.  "To-night 
is  Saturday;  alone  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  you  going  to  stay  in  Granton?" 

"I  don't  know  yet." 

"Don't  learn  spinnin',"  he  said  decidedly.  "I 
am  head  of  the  speedin'-room.  I'll  give  you  a  job 
in  my  room  on  Monday  morning." 

My  relief  was  immense.  His  subsequent  questions 
I  parried,  thanked  him,  and  withdrew  to  keep  secret 
from  Excelsior  that  I  had  deserted  for  Granton. 


262  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

Although  these  mills  are  within  three  hundred 
feet  of  each  other,  the  villagers  do  not  associate. 
The  workings  of  Granton  are  unknown  to  Excelsior 
and  vice  versa. 

The  speeding-room,  in  Granton  is  second  only  in 
noise  to  the  weave-room.  Conversation  must  be 
entrancing  and  vital  to  be  pursued  here !  The 
speeder  has  under  her  care  as  many  machines  as  her 
skill  can  control. 

My  teacher,  Bessie,  ran  four  sides,  seventy-six 
speeders  on  a  side,  her  work  being  regulated  by  a 
crank  that  marked  the  vibrations.  To  the  lay  mind 
the  terms  of  the  speeding-room  can  mean  nothing. 
This  girl  made  from  $1.30  to  $1.50  a  day.  She 
controlled  in  all  704  speeders ;  these  she  had  to  replen- 
ish and  keep  running,  and  to  clean  all  the  machin- 
ery gear  with  her  own  hands ;  to  oil  the  steel,  even 
to  bend  and  clean  under  the  lower  shelf  and  come 
into  contact  with  the  most  dangerous  parts  of  the 
mechanism.  The  girl  at  the  speeder  next  to  me  had 
just  had  her  hand  mashed  to  a  jelly.  The  speeder 
watches  her  ropers  run  out ;  these  stand  at  the  top 
and  back  of  the  line.  The  ropers  are  refilled  and 
their  ends  attached  to  the  flying  speeders  by  a  quick 
motion.  The  yarn  from  the  ropers  is  wound  off  on 
to  the  speeders.  When  the  speeders  are  full  of  yarn 
they  are  detached  from  the  nest  of  steel  in  which  they 
whirl  and  are  thrown  into  a  hand-car  which  is  pushed 
about  the  room  by  the  girls  themselves.  Speeding 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     263 

is  excessively  dirty  work  and  greasy;  the  oiling  and 
cleaning  is  only  fit  for  a  man  to  do. 

The  girl  who  teaches  me  has  been  at  her  work 
for  ten  years;  she  entered  the  factory  at  eight. 
She  was  tall,  raw-boned,  an  expert,  deft  and 
capable,  and,  as  far  as  I  could  judge  in  our 
acquaintance,  thoroughly  respectable. 

There  are  long  waits  in  this  department  of  the 
cotton-spinning  life.  On  tall  green  stools  we  sit  at 
the  end  of  our  sides  during  the  time  it  takes  for  one 
well-filled  roper  to  spin  itself  out ;  we  talk,  or  rather 
contrive  to  make  ourselves  heard.  She  has  a  sweet, 
gentle  face ;  she  is  courtesy  and  kindness  itself. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  all  day  ? " 

"Why,  I  couldn't  even  begin  to  tell  all  my 
thoughts." 

"Tell  me  some." 

"  Why,  I  think  about  books,  I  reckon.  Do  you-all 
likereadin'?" 

"Yes." 

"Ain't  nuthin'  I  like  so  good  when  I  ain't  tyrd." 

"Are  you  often  tired?"  And  this  question 
surprises  her.  She  looks  up  at  me  and  smiles. 
"  Why,  I'm  always  tyrd  !  I  read  novels  for  the  most 
part;  like  to  read  love  stories  and  about  fo'ran 
travel." 

(For  one  short  moment  please  consider:  This 
hemmed-in  life,  this  limited  existence,  encompassed 
on  all  sides  by  the  warfare  and  battle  and  din  of 


264  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

maddening  sounds,  vibrations  around  her  during 
twelve  hours  of  the  day,  vibrations  which  mean  that 
her  food  is  being  gained  by  each  pulse  of  the  engine 
and  its  ratio  marked  off  by  the  disk  at  her  side. 
Before  her  the  scene  is  unchanged  day  after  day, 
month  after  month,  year  after  year.  It  is  not  an 
experience  to  this  woman  who  works  beside  me  so 
patiently;  it  is  her  life.  The  forms  she  sees  are 
warped  and  scarred;  the  intellects  with  which  she 
comes  in  contact  are  dulled  and  undeveloped.  All 
they  know  is  toil,  all  they  know  of  gain  is  a  fluctua- 
tion in  a  wage  that  ranges  from  cents  to  a  dollar  and 
cents  again,  never  touching  a  two-dollar  mark.  The 
children  who,  barefooted,  filthy,  brush  past  her, 
sweeping  the  cotton  from  the  infected  floors,  these 
are  the  only  forms  of  childhood  she  has  ever  seen. 
The  dirty  women  around  her,  low-browed,  sensual, 
are  the  forms  of  womanhood  that  she  knows ;  and  the 
men  ?  If  she  does  not  feed  the  passion  of  the  overseer, 
she  may  find  some  mill-hand  who  will  contract  a  "mill 
marriage"  with  this  daughter  of  the  loom,  a  marriage 
little  binding  to  him  and  which  will  give  her  children 
to  give  in  time  to  the  mill.  This  is  the  realism  of  her 
love  story:  She  reads  books  that  you,  too,  may 
have  read;  she  dares  to  dream  of  scenes,  to  picture 
them — scenes  that  you  have  sought  and  wearied  of. 
A  tithe  of  our  satiety  would  mean  her  banquet,  her 
salvation !  .  .  .  Her  happiness  ?  That  question 
who  can  answer  for  her  or  for  you  ?) 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     265 

She  continues:  "I'm  very  fond  of  fo'ran  travel, 
only  I  ain't  never  had  much  occasion  for  it." 

This  pathos  and  humour  keep  me  silent.  A  few 
ropers  have  run  out;  she  rises.  I  rise,  too,  to 
replace,  to  attach,  and  set  the  exhausted  line  taut 
and  complete  again. 

Ten  years !  Ten  years !  All  her  girlhood  and 
youth  has  been  given  to  keeping  ropers  supplied  with 
fresh  yarn  and  speeders  a-whirling.  During  this 
travail  she  has  kept  a  serenity  of  expression,  a  depth 
of  sweetness  at  which  I  marvel.  Her  voice  is 
peculiarly  soft  and,  coupled  with  the  dialect  drawl, 
is  pleasant  to  hear. 

"  I  hate  the  mills !"  she  says  simply. 

"What  would  you  be  if  you  could  choose?"  I 
venture  to  ask.  She  has  no  hesitation  in  answering. 

"I'd  love  to  be  a  trained  nurse."  Then,  turn 
about  is  fair  play  in  her  mind,  I  suppose,  for  she  asks : 

"What  would  you-all  be?" 

And  ashamed  not  to  well  repay  her  truthfulness  I 
frankly  respond:  "I'd  like  to  write  a  book." 

"  I  declare."  She  stares  at  me.  "  Why,  you-all 
is  ambitious.  Did  you  ever  write  anything?" 

"A  letter  or  two." 

She  is  interested  and  kindles,  leaning  forward. 
"  I  suttenly  ain't  so  high  in  my  ambitions,"  she  says 
appreciatively.  "Wish  you'd  write  a  love  story  for 
me  to  read,"  and  she  ponders  over  the  idea,  her  eyes 
on  my  snowy  flying  speeders. 


266  THE   WOMAN  WHO  TOILS 

"Look  a-hyar,  got  any  of  your  scrappin's  on 
writin'  hyar?  Ef  you  don't  mind  anybody's  messin' 
with  your  things,  bring  your  scrappin's  to  me  an'  I'll 
soon  tell  you  ef  you  can  write  a  book  er  not,"  she 
whispered  to  me  encouragingly,  confidentially,  a 
whisper  reaching  farther  in  the  mills  than  a  loud 
sound. 

I  thanked  her  and  said:  "Do  you  think  that 
you'd  know?" 

"Well,  I  guess  I  would!"  she  said  confidently. 
"  I  ain't  read  all  my  life  sense  I  was  eight  years  old 
not  to  know  good  writin'  from  bad.  Can  you-all 
sing?" 

"No." 

"Play  sweet  music?" 

"No." 

"  I  jest  love  it."  She  enthuses.  "  Every  Saturday 
afternoon  I  take  of  a  music  teacher  on  the  gee-tar. 
It  costs  me  a  quarter." 

I  could  see  the  scene:  a  shanty  room,  the  tall, 
awkward  figure  bending  over  her  instrument;  the 
type  that  the  teacher  made,  the  ambition,  the 
eagerness — all  of  which  qualities  we  are  so  willing  to 
deny  to  the  slaves  of  toil. 

"They  ain't  much  flowers  here  in  Granton,"  she 
said  again.  "Tain't  no  use  to  try  to  have  even 
a  few  geraneums;  it's  so  dry;  ain't  no  yards  nor 
gardens,  nuther." 

Musing  on  this  desolation  as  she  walks  up  and 


THE   SOUTHERN   COTTON   MILLS     267 

down  the  line,  she  says:     " I  dew  love  flowers,  don't 
you?" 

Over  and  over  again  I  am  asked  by  those  whose 
wish  I  suppose  is  to  prove  to  themselves  and  their 
consciences  that  the  working-girl  is  not  so  actively 
wretched,  her  outcry  is  not  so  audible  that  we  are 
forced  to  respond: 

"The  working  people  are  happy?  The  factory 
girls  are  happy,  are  they  not  ?  Don't  you  find  them 
so?" 

Is  it  a  satisfaction  to  the  leisure  class,  to  the 
capitalist  and  employer,  to  feel  that  a  woman  poorly 
housed,  ill-fed,  in  imminent  moral  danger,  every 
temptation  rampant  over  barriers  down,  over- 
worked, overstrained  by  labour  varying  from  ten 
to  thirteen  hours  a  day,  by  all-night  labour,  and 
destruction  of  body  and  soul,  is  happy? 

Do  you  wish  her  to  be  so  ?     Is  the  existence  ideal? 

I  can  speak  only  for  the  shoe  manufacturing  girl 
of  Lynn  and  for  the  small  Southern  mill-hand. 

I  thank  Heaven  that  I  can  say  truthfully,  that 
of  all  who  came  under  my  observation,  not  one  who 
was  of  age  to  reflect  was  happy.  I  repeat,  the 
working-woman  is  brave  and  courageous,  but 
the  most  sane  and  hopeful  indication  for  the  future 
of  the  factory  girl  and  the  mill-hand  is  that 
she  rebels,  dreams  of  something  better,  and  will 
in  the  fullness  of  time  stretch  toward  it.  They 


268  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

have  no  time  to  think,  even  if  they  knew  how. 
All  that  remains  for  them  in  the  few  miserable 
hours  of  relief  from  labour  and  confinement  and 
noise  is  to  seek  what  pastime  they  may  find  under 
their  hand.  We  have  never  realized,  they  have 
never  known,  that  their  great  need — given  the  work 
that  is  wrung  from  them  and  the  degradation  in 
which  they  are  forced  to  live — is  a  craving  for 
amusement  and  relaxation.  Amusements  for  this 
class  are  not  provided ;  they  can  laugh,  they  rarely 
do.  The  thing  that  they  seek — let  me  repeat:  I 
cannot  repeat  it  too  often — in  the  minimum  of 
time  that  remains  to  them,  is  distraction.  They 
do  not  want  to  read;  they  do.  not  want  to  study; 
they  are  too  tired  to  concentrate.  How  can  you 
expect  it  ?  I  heard  a  manufacturer  say :  "We  gave 
our  mill-hands  everything  that  we  could  to  elevate 
them — a  natatorium,  a  reading  library — and  these 
halls  fell  into  disuse."  I  ask  him  now,  through 
these  pages,  the  questions  which  I  did  not  put  to 
him  then  as  I  listened  in  silence  to  his  complaint. 
He  said  he  thought  too  much  was  done  for  the  mill- 
hands.  What  time  would  he  suggest  that  they 
should  spend  in  the  reading-room,  even  if  they  have 
learned  to  read?  They  rise  at  four;  at  a  quarter 
before  six  they  are  at  work.  The  day  in  winter  is 
not  born  when  they  start  their  tasks ;  the  night  has 
fallen  long  before  they  cease.  In  summer  they  are 
worked  long  into  their  evenings.  They  tell  me  that 


THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON  MILLS     269 

they  are  too  tired  to  eat ;  that  all  they  want  to  do  is  to 
turn  their  aching  bones  on  to  their  miserable  mat- 
tresses and  sleep  until  they  are  cried  and  shrieked 
awake  by  the  mill  summons.  Therefore  they  solve 
their  own  questions.  Nothing  is  provided  for  them 
that  they  can  use,  and  they  turn  to  the  only  thing 
that  is  within  their  reach — animal  enjoyment,  human 
intercourse  and  companionship.  They  are  animals, 
as  are  their  betters,  and  with  it,  let  us  believe,  more 
excuse. 

The  mill  marriage  is  a  farce,  and  yet  they 
choose  to  call  their  unions  now  and  again  a  marriage. 
Many  a  woman  has  been  a  wife  several  times  in  the 
same  town,  in  the  same  house.  The  bond-tying  is  a 
form,  and,  of  course,  mostly  ignored.  The  settle- 
ments swarm  with  illegitimate  children.  Next  to 
me  work  two  young  girls,  both  under  seventeen, 
both  ringless  and  with  child. 

Let  me  picture  the  Foster  household,  where  I 
used  to  call  Saturday  evenings. 

Mrs.  Foster  herself,  a  frowseled  mass  of  humanity, 
dirty,  slipshod,  hugs  her  fireside.  Although  the  day 
is  warm,  she  kindled  a  fire  to  stimulate  the  thin, 
poor  blood  exhausted  by  disease  and  fevers.  Two 
flatirons  lie  in  a  dirty  heap  on  the  floor.  As  usual, 
the  room  is  a  nest  of  filth  and  untidiness. 

Mrs.  Foster  is  half  paralyzed,  but  her  tongue  is 
free.  She  talks  fluently  in  her  soft  Southern  drawl, 


2  7o  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

more  Negro  than  white  as  to  speech  and  tone.  Up 
to  her  sidles  a  dirty,  pretty  little  boy  of  four. 

"This  yere  is  too  little  to  go  to  the  mill,  but  he's 
wild  to  go ;  yes,  ser,  he  is  so.  Las'  night  he  come  to 
me  en  say,  'Auntie,  you-all  wake  me  up  at  fo'  'clock 
sure;  I  got  ter  go  ter  the  mill.'  ' 

Here  the  little  blond  child,  whose  mouth  is  set  on  a 
pewter  spoon  dripping  over  with  hominy,  grins 
appreciatively.  He  throws  back  his  white  and 
delicate  little  face,  and  his  aunt,  drawing  him  close 
to  her,  caresses  him  and  continues:  "Yes,  ma'am, 
to-day  he  dun  wake  up  after  they-all  had  gone  and 
he  sayd,  'My  goodness,  I  dun  oversleep  mase'f ! ' 
He  sha'n't  go  to  the  mill,"  she  frowned,  "  not  ef  we 
can  help  it.  Why,  I  don't  never  let  him  outen  my 
sight;  'fraid  lest  those  awful  mill  children  would 
git  at  him." 

Thus  she  sheltered  him  with  what  care  she  knew— 
care  that  unfortunately  could  not  go  far  enough  back 
to  protect  him  !  His  mother  came  in  at  the  noon 
hour,  as  we  sat  there  rocking  and  chatting.  She 
was  a  straight,  slender  creature,  not  without  grace 
in  her  shirt-waist  and  her  low-pulled  felt  hat  that 
shadowed  her  sullen  face.  She  was  very  young, 
not  more  than  twenty-two,  and  her  history  indicative 
and  tragic.  With  a  word  only  and  a  nod  she  passes 
us ;  she  has  now  too  many  vital  things  and  incidents 
in  her  own  career  to  be  curious  regarding  a  strange 
mill-hand.  She  goes  with  her  comrade — and  cousin 


THE  SOUTHERN  COTTON  MILLS     271 

—Mamie,  into  the  kitchen  to  devour  in  as  short  a 
time  as  possible  the  noon  dinner,  served  by  the 
grandmother:  cabbage  and  hominy.  "They  don't 
have  time  'nough  to  eat,"  the  aunt  says;  "no  sooner 
then  they-all  come  in  and  bolt  their  dinner  then  it  is 
time  to  go  back."  Her  child  has  followed  her. 
Minnie  was  married  at  thirteen ;  in  less  than  a  year 
she  was  a  grass  widow.  "My  goodness,  there's  lots 
of  grass  widows  !"  my  frowsled  hostess  nods.  "Why, 
in  one  weave-room  hyar  there  ain't  a  gyrl  but  what's 
left  by  her  husband.  One  day  a  new  gyrl  come  for 
to  run  a  loom  and  they  yells  out  at  her,  'Is  you-all  a 
grass  widow  ?  Yer  can't  come  in  hyar  ef  you  ain't.' ' 

But  it  was  after  her  grass  widowhood  that  Minnie's 
tragedy  began.  The  mill  was  her  ruin.  So  much 
grace  and  good  looks  could  not  go,  cannot  go,  does 
not  go  unchallenged  by  the  attentions  of  the  men 
who  are  put  there  to  run  these  women's  work.  The 
overseer  was  father  of  her  child,  and  when  she  tried  to 
force  from  him  recognition  and  aid  he  threw  over  his 
position  and  left  Columbia  and  this  behind  him. 
This,  one  instance  under  my  own  eyes  observed. 
There  are  many. 

"Mamie  works  all  night"  (she  spoke  of  the  other 
girl) — "makes  more  money.  My,  but  she  hates  the 
mills !  Says  she  ain't  ever  known  a  restful  minute 
sence  she  left  the  hills." 

My  hostess  has  drawn  the  same  conclusion  from 
my  Northern  appearance  that  the  Joneses  drew. 


272  THE  WOMAN   WHO  TOILS 

"You-all  must  eat  good  where  you  come  from! 
you  look  so  healthy.  Do  you-all  know  the  Banks 
girl  over  to  Calcutta?" 

"No." 

"They  give  her  nine  months."  (Calcutta  is  the 
roughest  settlement  round  here.)  "Why,  that  gyrl 
wars  her  hair  cut  short,  and  she  shoots  and  cuts  like  a 
man.  She  drew  her  knife  on  a  man  last  week — cut 
his  face  all  up  and  into  his  side  through  his  lung. 
Tried  to  pass  as  she  was  his  wife,  but  when  they  had 
her  up,  ma'am,  they  proved  she  had  been  three 
men's  wives  and  he  four  gyrl's  husbands.  He  liked 
to  died  of  the  cut.  They've  given  her  nine  months, 
but  he  ain't  the  only  man  that  bears  her  marks. 
Over  to  Calcutta  it's  the  knife  and  the  gun  at  a 
wink.  This  yere  was  an  awful  pretty  gyrl.  My  Min 
seed  her  peekin'  out  from  behind  the  loom  in  the 
weave-room,  thought  she  was  a  boy,  and  said :  'Who's 
that  yere  pretty  boy  peekin'  at  me?'  And  that 
gyrl  told  Min  that  she  couldn't  help  knife  the  men, 
they  all  worried  on  her  so  !  'Won't  never  leave  me 
alone;  I  jest  have  to  draw  on  'em;  there  ain't  no 
other  way.' '  .  .  . 

For  the  annals  of  morality  and  decency  do  not 
take  up  this  faithful  account  and  picture  the  cotton- 
mill  village.  You  will  not  find  it  in  these  scenes 
drawn  from  the  life  as  it  is  at  this  hour,  as  it  is  por- 
trayed by  the  words  that  the  very  people  them- 
selves will  pour  into  your  ears.  Under  the  walls  of 


THE   SOUTHERN  COTTON   MILLS     273 

Calcutta  Negroes  are  engaged  in  laying  prospective 
flower  beds,  so  that  the  thirteen-hour  workers  may 
look  out  from  time  to  time  and  see  the  forms  of 
flowers.  On  the  other  side  rise  some  twenty  shanties. 
These  houses  of  Calcutta  village  are  very  small, 
built  from  the  roughest  unpainted  boards.  Here 
it  is,  in  this  little  settlement,  that  the  knife  comes 
flashing  out  at  a  word — that  the  women  shoot  as 
well  as  men,  and  perhaps  more  quickly. 

"Richland  ain't  so  bad  as  the  other!"  I  can 
hear  Mrs.  Foster  drawl  out  this  recommendation  to 
us.  "They  ain't  so  much  chills  here.  We  dun  move 
up  from  town  first ;  had  to — too  high  rents  for  we-all ; 
now  we  dun  stay  hyar.  Why,  some  of  the  gyrls  and 
boys  works  to  Granton  and  bo'ds  hyar;  seems  like 
it's  mo'  healthy." 

Moving,  ambulant  population  !  tramping  from  hill 
to  hill,  from  sand-heap  to  sand-heap  to  escape  the 
slow  or  quick  death,  to  prolong  the  toiling,  bitter 
existence — pilgrims  of  eternal  hope;  born  in  the 
belief,  in  the  sane  and  wholesome  creed  that,  no 
matter  what  the  horror  is,  no  matter  what  the 
burden's  weight  must  be,  one  must  live!  It  takes  a 
great  deal  to  wake  in  these  inexpressive,  indifferent 
faces  illumination  of  interest.  At  what  should  they 
rejoice  ? 

I  have  made  the  destitution  of  beauty  clear.  I 
believe  there  is  an  absolute  lack  of  every  form  or 


274  THE  WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

sight  that  might  inspire  or  cause  a  soul  to  awake. 
There  is  nothing  to  lift  these  people  from  the  earth 
and  from  labour.  There  should  be  a  complete 
readjustment  of  this  system.  I  have  been  interested 
in  reading  in  the  New  York  Sun  of  April  2oth  of  the 
visit  of  the  bishops  to  the  model  factories  in  Ohio. 
I  am  constrained  to  wish  that  bishops  and  clergy 
and  philanthropists  and  millionaires  and  capitalists 
might  visit  in  bodies  and  separately  the  mills  of 
South  Carolina  and  their  tenement  population.  It 
is  difficult  to  know  just  what  the  ideas  are  of  the 
people  who  have  constructed  these  dwellings.  ^They 
tell  us  in  this  same  prospectus,  which  I  have  read 
with  interest  after  my  personal  experience,  that  these 
villages  are ' '  picturesque. ' '  This  is  the  only  reference 
I  find  to  the  people  and  their  conditions.  I  have 
seen  nothing  but  horror,  and  yet  I  went  into  these 
places  without  prejudice,  prepared 'to  be  interested 
in  the  industry  of  the  Southern  country,  and  with 
no  idea  of  the  tragedy  and  nudity  of  these  people's 
existence.  The  ultimate  balance  is  sure  to  come; 
meanwhile,  we  cannot  but  be  sensible  of  the  vast 
individual  sacrifices  that  must  fall  to  destruction 
before  the  scales  swing  even. 


THE  CHILD   IN   SOUTHERN   MILLS 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  CHILD  IN  THE  SOUTHERN  MILLS 

IN  the  week  before  I  left  for  the  South  I  dined 

in  with  a  very  charming  woman  and  her 

husband.  Before  a  table  exquisite  in  its  appoint- 
ments, laden  with  the  best  the  market  could 
offer  and  good  taste  display,  sat  the  mistress,  a 
graceful,  intelligent  young  woman,  full  of  philan- 
thropic, charitable  interests,  and  one  whom  I  know 
to  be  devoted  to  the  care  and  benefiting  of  little 
children  in  her  city.  During  the  meal  I  said  to  her 
casually : 

"Do  you  know  that  in  your  mills  in  South 
Carolina  to-night,  as  we  sit  here,  little  children  are 
working  at  the  looms  and  frames — little  children, 
some  of  them  not  more  than  six  years  old  ?" 

She  said,  in  astonishment,  "I  don't  know  it; 
and  I  can't  believe  it." 

I  told  her  I  should  soon  see  just  how  true  the 
reports  were,  and  when  I  returned  to  New  York  I 
would  tell  her  the  facts.  She  is  not  alone  in  her 
ignorance.  Not  one  person,  man  or  woman,  to 
whom  I  told  the  facts  of  the  cases  I  observed 
"dreamed  that  children  worked  in  any  mills  in  the 

277 


278  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

United  States!"  After  my  experience  amongst  the 
working  class,  I  am  safe  in  saying  that  I  consider 
their  grievances  to  be  the  outcome  of  the  igno- 
rance and  greed  of  the  manufacturer  abetted, 
aided  and  made  possible  by  the  ignorance  and 
poverty  of  the  labourer. 

There  is  nothing  more  conscience-silencing  than 
to  accuse  the  writers  of  the  different  articles  on 
child-labour  of  sentimentality.  The  comfort  in 
which  we  live  makes  it  easy  to  eliminate  thoughts1 
that  torture  us  to  action  in  the  cause  of  others.  I 
will  be  delighted  to  meet  an  accusation  of  senti- 
mentality and  exaggeration  by  any  man  or  woman 
who  has  gone  to  a  Southern  mill  as  an  operative  and 
worked  side  by  side  with  the  children,  lived  with 
them  in  their  homes.  It  is  defamation  to  use  the 
word  "home"  in  connection. with  the  unwholesome 
shanty  in  the  pest-ridden  district  where  the  remnant 
of  the  children's  lives  not  lived  in  the  mill  is  passed. 
This  handful  of  unpainted  huts,  raised  on  stilts 
from  the  soil,  fever-ridden  and  malarious ;  this  blank, 
ugly  line  of  sun-blistered  shanties,  along  a  road, 
yellow-sand  deep,  is  a  mill  village.  The  word 
village  has  a  cheerful  sound.  It  summons  a  country 
scene,  with  the  charms  of  home,  however  simple 
and  unpretentious.  There  is  nothing  to  charm  or 
please  in  the  villages  I  have  already,  in  these  pages, 
drawn  for  you  to  see  and  which  with  veritable  sick 
reluctance  I  summon  again  before  your  eyes. 


THE   CHILD    IN    SOUTHERN    MILLS  279 

Every  house  is  like  unto  its  neighbour — a  shelter 
put  up  rapidly  and  filled  to  the  best  advantage. 

There  is  not  a  garden  within  miles,  not  a  flower, 
scarcely  a  tree.  Arid,  desolate,  beautyless,  the  pale 
sand  of  the  State  of  South  Carolina  nurtures  as 
best  it  can  a  stray  tree  or  shrub — no  more.  At 
the  foot  of  the  shanties'  black  line  rises  the  cotton 
mill.  New,  enormous,  sanitary  (!!).  Its  capital 
runs  into  millions;  its  prospectuses  are  pompous; 
its  pay-roll  mysterious.  You  will  not  be  able  to  say 
how  many  of  the  fifteen  thousand  odd  hands  at 
work  in  this  mill  are  adults,  how  many  children. 
In  the  State  of  South  Carolina  there  are  statistics  of 
neither  births,  marriages  nor  deaths.  What  can 
you  expect  of  a  mill  village ! 

At  5:45  we  have  breakfasted — the  twelve  of  us 
who  live  in  one  small  shanty,  where  we  have  slept, 
all  five  of  us  in  one  room,  men  to  the  right  of  the 
kitchen,  women  and  children  on  the  left.  To  leave 
the  pestilence  of  foul  air,  the  stench  of  that  dwelling, 
is  blessed,  even  if  the  stroke  that  summons  is  the 
mill  whistle. 

As  we  troop  to  work  in  the  dawn,  we  leave 
behind  us  the  desert-like  town;  all  day  it  drowses, 
haunted  by  a  few  figures  of  old  age  and  infirmity — 
but  the  mill  is  alive !  We  have  given  up,  in  order 
to  satisfy  its  appetite,  all  manner  of  flesh  and  blood, 
and  the  gentlest  morsel  between  its  merciless  jaws 
is  the  little  child. 


28o  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

So  long  as  I  am  part  of  its  food  and  triumph  I 
will  study  the  mill. 

Leaving  the  line  of  flashing,  whirling  spools,  I 
lean  against  the  green  box  full  of  cotton  refuse  and 
regard  the  giant  room. 

It  is  a  wonderful  sight.  The  mill  itself,  a  model 
of  careful,  well-considered  building,  has  every  facility 
for  the  best  and  most  advantageous  manufacture 
of  textiles.  The  fine  frames  of  the  intricate  "warp- 
ing," the  well-placed  frames  of  the  "drawing-in" 
all  along  the  window  sides  of  the  rooms ;  then  lines 
upon  lines  of  spool  frames.  Great  piles  of  stuff  lie 
here  and  there  in  the  room.  It  is  early — "all  the 
yarn  ain't  come  yet."  Two  children  whose  work 
has  not  been  apportioned  lie  asleep  against  a  cotton 
bale.  The  terrible  noise,  the  grinding,  whirling, 
pounding,  the  gigantic  burr  renders  other  senses 
keen.  By  my  side  works  a  little  girl  of  eight. 
Her  brutal  face,  already  bespeaking  knowledge  of 
things  childhood  should  ignore,  is  surrounded  by  a 
forest  of  yellow  hair.  She  goes  doggedly  at  her 
spools,  grasping  them  sullenly.  She  walks  well  on 
her  bare,  filthy  feet.  Her  hands  and  arms  are  no 
longer  flesh  colour,  but  resemble  weather-roughened 
hide,  ingrained  with  dirt.  Around  the  tangle  of 
her  hair  cotton  threads  and  bits  of  lint  make  a 
sort  of  aureole.  (Her  nimbus  of  labour,  if  you 
will ! )  There  is  nothing  saint-like  in  that  face,  nor 
in  the  loose-lipped  mouth,  whence  exudes  a  black 


THE   CHILD   IN   SOUTHERN   MILLS  281 

stain  of  snuff  as  between  her  lips  she  turns  the 
root  she  chews. 

"She's  a  mean  girl,"  my  little  companion  says; 
"we-all  don't  hev  nothin'  to  say  to  her." 

"Why?" 

"Her  maw  hunts  her  to  the  mill;  she  don't  want 
to  go — no,  sir — so  she's  mad  most  the  time. " 

Thus  she  sets  her  dogged  resistance  in  scowling 
black  looks,  in  quick,  frantic  gestures  and  motions 
against  the  machinery  that  claims  her  impotent 
childhood.  The  nimbus  around  her  furze  of  hair 
remains;  there  are  other  heads  than  saints — there 
are  martyrs  !  Let  the  child  wear  her  crown. 

Through  the  looms  I  catch  sight  of  Upton's,  my 
landlord's,  little  child.  She  is  seven;  so  small  that 
they  have  a  box  for  her  to  stand  upon.  She  is 
a  pretty,  frail,  little  thing,  a  spooler — "a  good 
spooler,  tew!"  Through  the  frames  on  the  other 
side  I  can  only  see  her  fingers  as  they  clutch  at  the 
flying  spools ;  her  head  is  not  high  enough,  even  with 
the  box,  to  be  visible.  Her  hands  are  fairy  hands, 
fine-boned,  well-made,  only  they  are  so  thin  and 
dirty,  and  her  nails — claws;  she  would  do  welj  to 
have  them  cut.  A  nail  can  be  torn  from  the  finger, 
is  torn  from  the  finger  frequently,*  by  this  flying 

*  In  Hunts ville,  Alabama,  a  child  of  eight  lost  her  index  and 
middle  fingers  of  the  right  hand  in  January,  1902.  One  doctor 
told  me  that  he  had  amputated  the  fingers  of  more  than  a  hun- 
dred babies.  A  merchant  told  me  he  had  frequently  seen  chil- 
dren whose  hands  had  been  cut  off  by  the  machinery. — American 
Federationist. 


282  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

spool.  I  go  over  to  Upton's  little  girl.  Her 
spindles  are  not  thinner  nor  her  spools  whiter. 

"  How  old  are  you  ? " 

"Ten." 

She  looks  six.  It  is  impossible  to  know  if  what 
she  says  is  true.  The  children  are  commanded  both 
by  parents  and  bosses  to  advance  their  ages 'when 
asked. 

"Tired?" 

She  nods,  without  stopping.  She  is  a  "  remarkable 
fine  hand. "  She  makes  forty  cents  a  day.  See  the 
value  of  this  labour  to  the  manufacturer — cheap, 
yet  skilled;  to  the  parent  it  represents  $2.40  per 
week. 

I  must  not  think  that  as  I  work  beside  them  I  will 
gain  their  confidence !  They  have  no  time  to  talk. 
Indeed,  conversation  is  not  well  looked  upon  by  the 
bosses,  and  I  soon  see  that  unless  I  want  to  entail  a 
sharp  reproof  for  myself  and  them  I  must  stick  to 
my  "side."  And  at  noon  I  have  no  heart  to  take 
their  leisure.  At  twelve  o'clock,  Minnie,  a  little 
spooler,  scarcely  higher  than  her  spools,  lifts  her 
hands  above  her  head  and  exclaims:  "  Thank  God, 
there's  the  whistle!"  I  watched  them  disperse: 
some  run  like  mad,  always  bareheaded,  to  fetch 
the  dinner-pail  for  mother  or  father  who  work  in 
the  mill  and  who  choose  to  spend  these  little  legs 
and  spare  their  own.  It  takes  ten  minutes  to  go, 
ten  to  return,  and  the  little  labourer  has  ten  to 


THE   CHILD    IN    SOUTHERN   MILLS  283 

devote  to  its  own  food,  which,  half  the  time,  he  is 
too  exhausted  to  eat. 

I  watch  the  children  crouch  on  the  floor  by  the 
frames ;  some  fall  asleep  between  the  mouthf uls  of 
food,  and  so  lie  asleep  with  food  in  their  mouths  until 
the  overseer  rouses  them  to  their  tasks  again.  Here 
and  there  totters  a  little  child  just  learning  to  walk ; 
it  runs  and  crawls  the  length  of  the  mill.  Mothers 
who  have  no  one  with  whom  to  leave  their  babies 
bring  them  to  the  workshop,  and  their  lives  begin, 
continue  and  end  in  the  horrible  pandemonium. 

One  little  boy  passes  by  with  his  broom;  he  is 
whistling.  I  look  up  at  the  cheery  sound  that 
pierces  fresh  but  faint  and  natural  above  the 
machines'  noise.  His  eyes  are  bright;  his  good 
spirits  surprise  me:  here  is  an  argument  for  my 
comfortable  friends  who  wish  to  prove  that  the 
children  "are  happy  !"  I  stop  him. 

"You  seem  very  jolly  1" 

He  grins. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  working?" 

"  Two  or  three  days. " 

The  gay  creature  has  just  begun  his  servitude 
and  brings  into  the  dreary  monotony  a  flash  of  the 
spirit  which  should  fill  childhood. 

I  think  it  will  be  granted  that  it  takes  a  great  deal 
to  discourage  and  dishearten  a  child.  The  hope- 
fulness of  the  mill  communities  lies  in  just  those 
elements  that  overwork  in  the  adult  and  that  child 


284  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

labour  will  ultimately  destroy.  When  hope  is  gone 
in  the  adult  he  must  wreak  some  vengeance  on  the 
bitter  fate  that  has  robbed  him.  There  is  no  more 
tragic  thing  than  the  hopeless  child.  The  adult  who 
grows  hopeless  can  affiliate  with  the  malcontents 
and  find  in  the  insanity  of  anarchy  what  he  calls 
revenge. 

It  seems  folly  to  insult  the  common  sense  of  the 
public  by  asking  them  whether  they  think  that 
thirteen  hours  a  day,  with  a  half  to  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  for  recreation  at  noon,  or  the  same  amount 
of  night- work  in  a  mill  whose  atmosphere  is  vile  with 
odours,  humid  with  unhealthfulness,  filled  with 
the  particles  of  flying  cotton,  a  pandemonium  of 
noise  and  deafening  roar,  so  deafening  that  the  loss 
of  hearing  is  frequent  and  the  keenness  of  hearing 
always  dulled  .  .  .  whether  the  atmosphere 
combined  with  the  association  of  men  and  women 
whose  morals  or  lack  of  morals  is  notorious  all  over 
the  world,  is  good  for  a  growing  child  ?  Is  it  con- 
ducive to  progressive  development,  to  the  making 
of  decent  manhood  or  womanhood?  What  kind 
of  citizen  can  this  child — if  he  is  fit  enough  in  the 
economic  struggle  of  the  world  to  survive — turn 
out  to  be?  Not  citizens  at  all:  creatures  scarcely 
fit  to  be  called  human  beings. 

I  asked  the  little  girl  who  teaches  me  to  spool 
who  the  man  is  whom  I  have  seen  riding  around 
on  horseback  through  the  town. 


THE   CHILD    IN   SOUTHERN   MILLS  285 

"Why,  he  goes  roun'  rousin'  up  the  hands  who 
ain't  in  their  places.  Sometimes  he  takes  the 
children  outen  thayre  bades  an'  brings  'em  back 
to  the  mill." 

And  if  the  child  can  stand,  it  spins  and  spools 
until  it  drops,  till  constitution  rebels,  and  death,  the 
only  friend  it  has  ever  known,  sets  it  free. 

Besides  being  spinners  and  spoolers,  and  occasion- 
ally weavers  even,  the  children  sweep  the  cotton- 
strewed  floors.  Scarcely  has  the  miserable  little 
object,  ragged  and  odourous,  passed  me  with  his 
long  broom,  which  he  drags  half-heartedly  along, 
than  the  space  he  has  swept  up  is  cotton-strewn 
again.  It  settles  with  discouraging  rapidity;  it  has 
also  settled  on  the  child's  hair  and  clothes,  and 
his  eyelashes,  and  this  atmosphere  he  breathes 
and  fairly  eats,  until  his  lungs  become  diseased. 
Pneumonia — fatal  in  nearly  all  cases  here — and 
lung  fever  had  been  a  pestilence,  "a  regular  plague," 
before  I  came.  There  were  four  cases  in  the  village 
where  I  lived,  and  fever  and  ague,  malaria  and 
grippe  did  their  parts. 

"Why,  thar  §,in't  never  a  haouse  but's  got  some- 
body sick,"  my  little  teacher  informed  me  in  her 
soft  Southern  dialect.  "I  suttinly  never  did  see  a 
place  like  this  for  dyin'  in  winter  time.  I  reckon 
et's  funerals  every  day." 

Here  is  a  little  child,  not  more  than  five  years 
old.  The  land  is  a  hot  enough  country,  we  will 


286  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

concede,  but  not  a  savage  South  Sea  Island  !  She 
has  on  one  garment,  if  a  tattered  sacking  dress 
can  so  be  termed.  Her  bones  are  nearly  through 
her  skin,  but  her  stomach  is  an  unhealthy  pouch, 
abnormal.  She  has  dropsy.  She  works  in  a  new 
mill — in  one  of  the  largest  mills  in  South  Carolina. 
Here  is  a  slender  little  boy — a  birch  rod  (good  old 
simile)  is  not  more  slender,  but  the  birch  has  the 
advantage:  it  is  elastic — it  bends,  has  youth  in  it. 
This  boy  looks  ninety.  He  is  a  dwarf;  twelve  years 
old,  he  appears  seven,  no  more.  He  sweeps  the 
cotton  off  the  floor  of  "the  baby  mill."  (How 
tenderly  and  proudly  the  owners  speak  of  their 
brick  and  mortar.)  He  sweeps  the  cotton  and  lint 
from  the  mill  aisles  from  6  P.  M.  to  6  A.  M.  without  a 
break  in  the  night's  routine.  He  stops  of  his  own 
accord,  however,  to  cough  and  expectorate — he  has 
advanced  tuberculosis. 

At  night  the  shanties  receive  us.  On  a  pine  board 
is  spread  our  food — can  you  call  it  nourishment? 
The  hominy  and  molasses  is  the  best  part ;  salt  pork 
and  ham  are  the  strong  victuals. 

It  is  eight  o'clock  when  the  children  reach  their 
homes — later  if  the  mill  work  is  behindhand  and 
they  are  kept  over  hours.  They  are  usually  beyond 
speech.  They  fall  asleep  at  the  table,  on  the  stairs ; 
they  are  carried  to  bed  and  there  laid  down  as 
they  are,  unwashed,  undressed;  and  the  inanimate 
bundles  of  rags  so  lie  until  the  mill  summons  them 


THE  CHILD    IN   SOUTHERN   MILLS  287 

with  its  imperious  cry  before  sunrise,  while  they  are 
still  in  stupid  sleep. 

"What  do  you  do  on  Sundays  ?"  I  asked  one  little 
girl. 

"Why,  thare  ain't  nothing  much  to  dew.  I  go  to 
the  park  sometimes." 

This  park  is  at  the  end  of  a  trolley  line ;  it  is  their 
Arcadia.  Picture  it !  A  few  yellow  sand  hills  with 
clusters  of  pine  trees  and  some  scrubby  under- 
growth; a  more  desolate,  arid,  gloomy  pleasure 
ground  cannot  be  conceived.  On  Sundays  the 
trolleys  bring  those  who  are  not  too  tired  to  so  spend 
the  day.  On  Sundays  the  mill  shanties  are  full  of 
sleepers. 

The  park  has  a  limited  number  of  devotees. 
Through  the  beautyless  paths  and  walks  the 
figures  pass  like  shadows.  There  come  three  mill 
girls  arm  in  arm;  their  curl  papers,  screwed  tight 
all  the  week,  are  out  on  Sunday,  in  greasy,  abundant 
curls.  Sunday  clothes  are  displayed  in  all  their 
superbness.  Three  or  four  young  men,  town  fellows, 
follow  them ;  they  are  all  strangers,  but  they  will  go 
home  arm  in  arm. 

Several  little  children,  who  have  no  clothes  but 
those  they  wear,  cling  close  to  the  side  of  a  gaunt, 
pale-faced  man,  who  carries  in  his  arms  the  youngest. 
The  little  girl  has  become  a  weight  to  be  carried  on 
Sundays;  she  has  worked  six  days  of  the  week — 
shall  she  not  rest  on  the  seventh?  She  shall;  she 


288  THE    WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

claims  this,  and  lies  inert  on  the  man's  arm,  her 
face  already  seared  with  the  scars  of  toil. 

I  ran  such  risk  taking  pictures  that  I  relinquished 
the  task,  and  it  was  only  the  last  day  at  the  mill, 
while  still  in  my  working  clothes  with  a  camera 
concealed  in  my  pocket,  that  I  contrived  to  get  a 
picture  or  two.  I  ventured  to  ask  two  little  boys 
who  swept  the  mill  to  stand  for  their  pictures. 

"I  don't  kyar  to,"  the  older  one  said.  I  explained 
that  it  would  not  hurt  them,  as  I  thought  he  was 
afraid;  but  his  little  companion  vouchsafed:  "We-all 
ain't  got  no  nickel."  When  they  understood  it  was 
a  free  picture  they  were  as  delighted  as  possible  and 
posed  with  alacrity,  making  touching  apologies  for 
their  greasy,  dirty  condition. 

When  I  asked  one  of  them  if  he  was  ever  clean, 
he  said:  "On  Sunday  I  wash  my  hands." 

It  was  noon,  on  the  day  I  chose  to  leave , 

turning  my  back  on  the  mill  that  had  allured  me  to 
its  doors  and  labour.  In  South  Carolina  early 
April  is  torrid,  flies  and  mosquitoes  are  rampant. 
What  must  this  settlement  be  in  midsummer  heat  ? 
There  is  no  colour  in  the  Southern  scene ;  the  clothes 
of  the  mill-hands,  the  houses,  the  soil  are  of  one 
tone — and,  more  strange,  there  is  not  one  line  of 
red,  one  dash  of  life,  in  the  faces  of  the  hundreds  of 
women  and  children  that  pass  me  on  their  way  back 
to  work. 

Under  the  existing  circumstances  they  have  no 


THE  CHILD   IN  SOUTHERN    MILLS  289 

outlook,  these  people,  no  hope;  their  appearance 
expresses  accurately  the  changeless  routine  of  an 
existence  devoted  to  eternal  ignorance,  eternal  toil. 

From  their  short  half -hour  of  mid-noon  rest,  the 
whistle,  piercing,  inanimate  call,  has  dared  to  com- 
mand the  slavish  obedience  of  animate  and  intelli- 
gent beings.  I  pause  by  the  trestle  over  which 
,  rumble  the  cars,  heavily  laden  with  the  cotton  cloth 
whose  perfection  has  made  this  Southern  mill  justly 
famous. 

The  file  of  humanity  that  passes  me  I  shall  never 
forget !  The  Blank  Mill  claims  1,500  of  these 
labourers;  at  least  200  are  children.  The  little 
things  run  and  keep  step  with  the  older  men  and 
women ;  their  shaggy,  frowzled  heads  are  bent,  their 
hands  protrude  pitifully  from  their  sleeves ;  they  are 
barefooted,  bareheaded.  With  these  little  figures 
the  elements  wanton;  they  can  never  know  the 
fullness  of  summer  or  the  proper  maturity  of  autumn. 
Suns  have  burned  them,  rains  have  fallen  upon 
them,  as  unprotected  through  storms  they  go  to 
their  work.  The  winter  winds  have  penetrated 
the  tatters  with  blades  like  knives ;  gray  and  dusty 
and  earth-coloured  the  line  passes.  These  are 
children?  No,  they  are  wraiths  of  childhood — 
they  are  effigies  of  youth !  What  can  Hope  work 
in  this  down-trodden  soil  for  any  future  harvest? 
They  can  curse  and  swear;  they  chew  tobacco  and 
take  snuff.  When  they  speak  at  all  their  voices 


290  THE   WOMAN   WHO    TOILS 

are  feeble ;  ears  long  dulled  by  the  thunder  of  the  mill 
are  no  longer  keen  to  sound;  their  speech  is  low 
and  scarcely  audible.  Over  sallow  cheeks  where  the 
skin  is  tightly  drawn  their  eyes  regard  you  suspi- 
ciously, malignantly  even,  never  with  the  frank  look 
of  childhood.  As  the  long  afternoon  goes  by  in  its 
hours  of  leisure  for  us  fatigue  settles  like  a  blight 
over  their  features,  their  expressions  darken  to 
elfish  strangeness,  whilst  sullen  lines,  never  to  be 
eradicated,  mark  the  distinctive  visages  of  these 
children  of  labour. 

At  certain  seasons  of  the  year  they  actually  die 
off  like  flies.  They  fall  subject,  not  to  children's 
diseases  exactly — nothing  really  natural  seems  to 
come  into  the  course  of  these  little  existences — 
they  fall  a  prey  to  the  maladies  that  are  the  out- 
comes of  their  conditions.  They  are  always  half- 
clad  in  the  winter  time ;  their  clothes  differ  nothing 
at  all  from  their  summer  clothes;  they  have  no 
overcoats  or  coats;  many  of  them  go  barefoot  all 
winter  long.  They  come  out  from  the  hot  mills 
into  cold,  raw  winds  and  fall  an  easy  prey  to  pneu- 
monia, scourge  of  the  mill-town.  Their  general 
health  is  bad  all  the  year  round;  their  skins  and 
complexions  have  taken  the  tone  of  the  sandy  soil 
of  the  Southern  country  in  which  they  are  bred 
and  in  which  their  martyrdom  is  accomplished.  I 
never  saw  a  rosy  cheek  nor  a  clear  skin:  these 
are  the  parchment  editions  of  childhood  on  which 


THE   CHILD   IN   SOUTHERN    MILLS  291 

Tragedy  is  written  indelibly.  You  can  there  read 
the  eternal  condemnation  of  those  who  have 
employed  them  for  the  sake  of  gain. 

It  is  a  melancholy  satisfaction  to  believe  that 
mill  labour  will  kill  off  little  spinners  and  spoolers. 
Unfortunately,  this  is  not  entirely  true.  There  are 
constitutions  that  survive  all  the  horrors  of  exist- 
ence. I  have  worked  both  in  Massachusetts  and 
the  South  beside  women  who  entered  the  mill  service 
at  eight  years  of  age.  One  of  these  was  still  in  her 
girlhood  when  I  knew  her.  She  was  very  strong, 
very  good  and  still  had  some  illusions  left.  I  do  not 
know  what  it  goes  to  prove,  when  I  say  that  at 
twenty,  in  spite  of  twelve  years  of  labour,  she  still 
dreamed,  still  hoped,  still  longed  and  prayed  for 
something  that  was  not  a  mill.  If  this  means 
content  in  servitude,  if  this  means  that  the  poor 
white  trash  are  born  slaves,  or  if  it  means  that 
there  is  something  inherent  in  a  woman  that  will 
carry  her  past  suicide  and  past  idiocy  and  degra- 
dation, all  of  which  is  around  her,  I  think  it 
argues  well  for  the  working  women. 

The  other  woman  was  forty.  She  had  no  illusions 
left — please  remember  she  had  worked  since  eight; 
she  had  reached,  if  you  like,  the  idiot  stage.  She 
had  nothing  to  offer  during  all  the  time  I  knew  her 
but  a  few  sentences  directly  in  connection  with 
her  toil. 

It  is  useless  to  advance  the  plea  that  spooling  is 


292  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

not  difficult.  No  child  (we  will  cancel  under 
twelve !)  should  work  at  all.  No  human  creature 
should  work  thirteen  hours  a  day.  No  baby  of 
six,  seven  or  eight  should  be  seen  in  the  mills. 

It  is  also  useless  to  say  that  these  children  tell  you 
that  they  "like  the  mill."  They  are  beaten  by 
their  parents  if  they  do  not  tell  you  this,  and, 
granted  that  they  do  not  like  their  servitude,  when 
was  it  thought  expedient  that  a  child  should  direct 
its  existence?  If  they  do  not  pass  the  early  years 
of  their  lives  in  study,  when  should  they  learn  ?  At 
what  period  of  their  lives  should  the  children  of  the 
Southern  mill-hand  be  educated?  Long  before 
they  reach  their  teens  their  habits  are  formed — 
ignorance  is  ingrained ;  indeed,  after  a  few  years  they 
are  so  vitally  reduced  that  if  you  will  you  cannot 
teach  them.  Are  these  little  American  children, 
then,  to  have  no  books  but  labour  ?  No  recreation  ? 
To  be  crushed  out  of  life  to  satisfy  the  ignorance 
and  greed  of  their  parents,  the  greed  of  the 
manufacturers?  Whatever  else  we  are,  we  are 
financiers  per  se.  The  fact  that  to-day,  as  for  years 
past,  Southern  cotton  mills  are  employing  the 
labour  of  children  under  tender  age — employing  an 
army  of  them  to  the  number  of  twenty  thousand 
under  twelve — can  only  be  explained,  by  a  frank 
admittal  that  infantile  labour  has  been  considered 
advantageous  to  the  cause  of  gain. 

This  gain,  apparent  by  the  facts  that  a  mill  can  be 


THE   CHILD    IN    SOUTHERN   MILLS  293 

run  for  thousands  of  dollars  less  in  the  South  than  a 
like  mill  can  be  run  in  the  North,  and  its  net  surplus 
profits  be  the  same  as  those  of  the  Northern  manu- 
factory, is  one  by  which  one  generation  alone  will 
profit.  The  attractiveness  of  the  figures  is  fallacious. 
What  I  imply  is  self-evident.  The  infant  popula- 
tion (its  numbers  give  it  a  right  to  this  dignity  of 
term)  whose  cheap  toil  feeds  the  mills  is  doomed.  I 
mean  to  say  that  the  rank  and  file  of  humanity  are 
daily  weeded  out ;  that  thousands  of  possibly  strong, 
healthy,  mature  labouring  men  and  women  are 
being  disease-stricken,  hounded  out  of  life;  the 
cotton  mill  child  cannot  develop  to  the  strong 
normal  adult  working-man  and  woman.  The  fiber 
exhausted  in  the  young  body  cannot  be  recreated. 
Early  death  carries  hundreds  out  of  life,  disease  rots 
the  remainder,  and  the  dulled  maturity  attained  by 
a  creature  whose  life  has  been  passed  in  this  labour 
is  not  fit  to  propagate  the  species. 

The  excessively  low  wages  paid  these  little  mill- 
hands  keep  under,  of  necessity,  the  wage  paid  the 
•grown  labourer.  It  is  a  crying  pity  that  children 
are  equal  to  the  task  imposed  upon  them.  It  is  a 
crying  pity  that  machines  (since  they  have  appeared, 
with  their  extended,  all-absorbing  power)  should 
not  do  all !  Particularly  in  the  Southern  States  do 
they  evince,  at  a  fatal  point,  their  limit,  display 
their  inadequacy.  When  babies  can  be  employed 
successfully  for  thirteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty- 


294  THE   WOMAN   WHO    TOILS 

four  at  all  machines  with  men  and  women;  when 
infants  feeds  mechanism  with  labour  that  has  not 
one  elevating,  humanizing  effect  upon  them  physi- 
cally or  mentally,  it  places  human  intelligence  below 
par  and  cheapens  and  distorts  the  nobler  forms  of 
toil.  Not  only  is  it  "no  disgrace  to  work,"  but  on 
the  contrary  it  is  a  splendid  thing  to  be  able  to 
labour,  and  those  who  gain  their  bread  by  the  sweat 
of  their  brow  are  not  the  servants  of  mankind  in  the 
sense  of  the  term,  but  the  patriarchs  and  controllers 
of  the  world's  march  and  the  most  subtle  signs 
of  the  times.  But  there  are  distinctly  fitnesses  of 
labour,  and  the  proper  presentation  to  the  working- 
man  and  woman  and  child  is  a  consideration. 

No  one  to-day  would  be  likely  for  an  instant  to 
concede  that  to  replace  the  treadmill  horse  with  a 
child  (a  thing  often  seen  and  practised  in  times  past) 
would  be  an  advantage.  And  yet  the  march  of  the 
child  up  and  down  before  its  spooling  frame  is  more 
suggestive  of  an  animal — of  the  dog  hitched  to  the 
Belgian  milk  cart ;  of  the  horse-  on  the  mill-tread — 
than  another  analogy. 

Contrast  this  pallid  automaton  with  the  children 
of  the  poor  in  a  New  York  kindergarten,  where  the 
six-  or  seven-year-old  child  of  the  German,  the 
Hungarian,  the  Polish  emigrant,  may  have  its 
imagination  stimulated,  its  creative  and  individual 
faculties  employed  as  it  is  taught  to  make  things— 
construct,  combine,  weave,  sew,  mould.  Every 


THE   CHILD   IN   SOUTHERN   MILLS  295 

power  latent  is  cajoled  to  expression,  every  talent 
encouraged.  Thus  work  in  its  first  form  is  rendered 
attractive,  and  youth  and  individuality  are  encour- 
aged. In  the  South  of  this  American  country 
whose  signet  is  individualism,  whose  strength 
(despite  our  motto,  ''United  we  stand")  is  in  the 
individual  freedom  and  vast  play  of  original  thought, 
here  in  the  South  our  purest  born,  the  most  unmixed 
blood  of  us,  is  being  converted  into  machines  of 
labour  when  the  forms  of  little  children  are  bound  in 
youth  to  the  spindle  and  loom. 

In  a  certain  mill  in  Alabama  there  are  seventy- 
five  child-labourers  who  work  twelve  hours  out  of 
the  twenty-four ;  they  have  a  half -hour  at  noon  for 
luncheon.  There  is  a  night  school  in  connection 
with  this  mill  corporation.  Fancy  it,  a  night  school 
for  the  day-long  child  labourer !  Fifty  out  of 
seventy-five  troop  to  it.  Although  they  are  so  tired 
they  cannot  keep  awake  on  the  benches,  and  the 
littlest  of  them  falls  asleep  over  its  letters,  although 
they  weep  with  fatigue,  they  are  eager  to  learn ! 
Is  there  a  more  conclusive  testimony  to  the  quality 
of  the  material  that  is  being  lost  to  the  States 
and  the  country  by  the  martyrdom  of  intelligent 
children  ? 

One  hears  two  points  of  view  expressed  on  this 
subject.  The  capitalist  advances  that  the  greed  of 
the  parents  forces  the  children  into  the  mills;  the 
people  themselves  tell  you  that  unless  they  are 


296  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

willing  to  let  their  available  children  work,  their 
own  lives  are  made  impossible  by  the  overseers. 
A  widow  who  has  children  stands  a  fair  chance  of 
having  her  rent  free;  if  she  refuses  this  tithe  of 
flesh  and  blood  she  is  too  often  thrust  into  the 
street.  So  I  am  told.  Now,  which  of  these  facts 
is  the  truth?  It  seems  to  be  clearly  too  much  left 
to  the  decision  of  private  enterprise  or  parental 
incapability.  The  Legislature  is  the  only  school  in 
which  to  decide  the  question.  During  my  stay  in 
South  Carolina  I  never  heard  one  woman  advocate 
the  mills  for  children.  One  mother,  holding  to  her 
breast  her  illegitimate  child,  her  face  dark  with  dis- 
like, said:  "Them  mills !  I  would  not  let  my  little 
boy  work  in  'em  !  No,  sir  !  He  would  go  over  my 
dead  body."  Another  woman  said :  "My  little  girl 
work?  No,  ma'am;  she  goes  to  school!"  and  the 
child  came  in  even  as  she  spoke— let  me  say  the  only 
cheerful  specimen  of  childhood,  with  the  exception 
of  the  few  little  creatures  in  the  kindergarten,  that 
I  saw  in  the  mill  district. 

South  Carolina  has  become  very  haughty  on  this 
topic  and  has  reached  a  point  when  she  tells  us  she 
is  to  cure  the  sore  in  her  own  body  without  aid  or 
interference.  At  a  late  session  of  the  Legislature 
the  bill  for  the  restriction  of  child  labour — we  must 
call  it  this,  since  it  legislates  only  for  the  child 
under  ten — this  bill  was  defeated  by  only  two 
dissenting  voices.  A  humane  gentleman  who  laid 


THE   CHILD   IN   SOUTHERN   MILLS  297 

claim  to  one  of  these  voices  was  heard  to  ejaculate  as 
the  bill  failed  to  pass :  ' ' Thank  God  !' '  Just  why,  it 
is  not  easy  to  understand. 

When  I  was  so  arrogant  as  to  say  to  the  editor  of 
The  State,  the  leading  paper  in  South  Carolina,  that 
I  hoped  my  article  might  aid  the  cause,  I  made  an 
error  clearly,  for  he  replied : 

"We  need  no  aid.  The  people  of  South  Carolina 
are  aroused  to  the  horror  and  will  cure  it  them- 
selves." 

Georgia  is  not  roused  to  the  horror;  Alabama  is 
stirring  actively;  but  the  Northerners  who  own 
these  mills — the  capitalists,  the  manufacturers,  the 
men  who  are  building  up  a  reputation  for  the 
wealth  of  South  Carolina  and  Alabama  mills,  are 
the  least  aroused  of  all.  We  must  believe  that  many 
directors  of  these  mills  are  ignorant  of  the  state  of 
affairs,  and  that  those  who  are  enlightened  willingly 
blind  their  eyes. 

The  mill  prospectuses  are  humourous  when  read 
by  the  investigator.  We  are  told  "labour-unions 
cut  no  figure  here  !" 

Go  at  night  through  the  mills  with  the  head  of 
the  Labour  Federation  and  with  the  instigator  of  the 
first  strikes  in  this  district — with  men  who  *are  the 
brain  and  fiber  of  the  labour  organization,  and  see 
the  friendly  looks  flash  forth,  see  the  understanding 
with  which  they  are  greeted  all  through  certain 
mills.  Consider  that  not  200  miles  away  at  the 


298  THE   WOMAN  WHO   TOILS 

moment  are  22,000  labourers  on  strike.     Then  greet 
these  statements  with  a  smile ! 

On  my  return  to  the  North  I  made  an  especial 
effort  to  see  my  New  England  friend.  We  lunched 
together  this  time,  and  at  the  end  of  the  meal  her 
three  little  children  fluttered  in  to  say  a  friendly 
word.  I  looked  at  them,  jealous  for  their  little 
defrauded  fellows,  whose  twelve-hour  daily  labour 
'served  to  purchase  these  exquisite  clothes  and  to 
heap  with  dainties  the  table  before  us.  But  I  was 
nevertheless  rejoiced  to  see  once  again  the  forms  of 
real  childhood  for  whom  air  and  freedom  and  wealth 
were  doing  blessed  tasks.  When  we  were  alone  I 
drew  for  my  friend  as  well  as  I  could  pictures  of  what 
I  had  seen.  She  leaned  forward,  took  a  brandied 
cherry  from  the  dish  in  front  of  her,  ate  it  delicately 
and  dipped  her  fingers  in  the  finger-bowl ;  then  she 
said: 

"Dear  friend,  I  am  going  to  surprise  you  very 
much." 

I  waited,  and  felt  that  it  would  be  difficult  to 
surprise  me  with  a  tale  of  a  Southern  mill. 

"Those  little  children — love  the  mill!  They  like 
to  work.  It's  a  great  deal  better  for  them  to  be 
employed  than  for  them  to  run  the  streets !" 

She  smiled  over  her  argument,  and  I  waited. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  continued,  "that  I  believe 
they  are  really  very  happy." 


THE   CHILD    IN   SOUTHERN   MILLS  299 

She  had  well  presented  her  argument.  She  had 
said  she  would  surprise  me — and  she  did. 

"You  will  not  feel  it  a  breach  of  affection  and 
hospitality  if  I  print  what  you  say?"  I  asked  her. 
"It's  only  fair  that  the  capitalist's  view  should  be 
given  here  and  there  first  hand.  You  own  one-half 
the  mill  in ,  Carolina?" 

"Yes." 

"What  do  you  think  of  a  model  mill  with  only 
nine  hours  a  day  labour,  holidays  and  all  nights 
free,  schools,  where  education  is  enforced  by  the 
State;  reading-rooms  open  as  well  as  churches — 
amusement  halls,  music,  recreation  and  pleasure, 
as  well  as  education  and  religion  ?" 

"I  think,"  she  said  keenly,  "that  united,  con- 
centrated action  on  the  part  of  the  cotton  mill 
owners  might  make  such  a  thing  feasible ;  for  us  to 
try  it  alone  would  mean  ruin." 

"Not  ruin,"  I  amended;  "a  reduction  of  income." 

"  Ruin,"  she  said,  firing.  "  We  couldn't  compete. 
To  compete,"  she  said  with  the  conviction  of  an 
intelligent,  well-informed  manufacturer,  "I  must 
have  my  sixty-six  hours  a  week!" 

The  spirit  of  discontent  is  always  abroad  when 
false  conditions  exist.  Its  restless  presence  is  con- 
trolled by  one  spirit  alone — humanity — when  reason- 
ably are  weighed  and  justly  decided  the  questions 
of  balance  between  Capital  and  Labour. 

We  must  believe  that  there   is  no  unsolvable 


300  THE   WOMAN   WHO   TOILS 

problem  before  us  in  considering  the  presence  of 
the  child  in  the  Southern  mills. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  essence  of  the  subject  to 
discourage  the  social  economist.  The  question 
should  not  be  left  to  the  decision  of  the  private 
citizen.  This  stuff  is  worth  saving.  There  is  the 
making  in  these  children  of  first-class  citizens.  I 
quote  from  the  illustrated  supplement  of  the  South 
Carolina  State  that  you  may  see  what  the  mill 
manufacturers  think  of  the  quality  of  the  "poor 
white  trash": 

"  The  operatives  in  the  South  Carolina  mills  are  the  common 
people — the  bone  and  sinew  who  have  left  the  fields  to  the 
Negroes.  They  are  industrious,  intelligent,  frugal,  and  have 
the  native  instincts  of  honesty  and  integrity  and  of  fidelity 
which  are  essential  to  good  citizenship." 

If  such  things  are  true  of  the  mill-hands  of  South 
Carolina,  it  is  worth  while  to  save  their  children. 


Henceforth,  my  vision  across  the  face  of  the 
modern  history  of  labour  and  manufacture  will 
eternally  defile  the  gray,  colourless  column  of  the 
Southern  mill  -  hands  :  an  earth  -  hued  line  of 
humanity — a  stream  that  divides  not. 

Here  there  are  no  stragglers.  At  noon  and  night 
the  pace  is  quick,  eager.  Steady  as  a  prison  gang, 
it  goes  to  food,  rest  and  freedom.  But  this  alacrity 
is  absent  in  the  morning.  On  the  hem  of  night,  the 
fringe  of  day,  the  march  is  slow  and  lifeless.  Many 


THE   CHILD    IN   SOUTHERN   MILLS  301 

of  the  heads  are  bent  and  downcast ;  some  of  the  faces 
peer  forward,  and  sallow  masks  of  human  counte- 
nances lift,  with  a  look  set  beyond  the  mill — toward 
who  can  say  what  vain  horizon  !  The  Stream  wan- 
ders slowly  toward  the  Houses  of  Labour,  although 
whipped  by  invisible  scourge  of  Need.  Without 
this  incentive  and  spur,  think  you  it  would  pursue 
a  direction  toward  thirteen  hours  of  toil,  shut  from  air 
and  sunlight  and  day,  taking  in  its  rank  the  women, 
the  young  girl  and  the  little  child? 

The  tone  of  the  garments  is  somber  and  gray, 
blending  with  the  gray  of  the  dawn ;  or  red,  blending 
with  the  earth  stains  of  the  peculiar  Southern  soil; 
or  claylike  and  pale  yellow.  Many  of  the  faces  are 
pallid,  some  are  tense,  most  of  them  are  indifferent, 
dulled  by  toil  and  yet  not  all  unintelligent.  Those 
who  are  familiar  with  the  healthy  type  of  the  decent 
workmen  of  the  West  and  East  must  draw  their 
distinctions  as  they  consider  this  peculiar,  unfamiliar 
class.  The  Southern  mill-hand's  face  is  unique — a 
fearful  type,  whose  perusal  is  not  pleasant  or 
cheerful  to  the  character-reader,  to  the  lover  of 
humanity  or  to  the  prophet  of  the  future.  Thus  they 
defile:  men  with  felt  hats  drawn  over  their  brows; 
women,  sunbonneted  or  hatless;  children  barefoot, 
bareheaded,  ragged,  unwashed.  Unwashed  these 
labourers  have  gone  to  bed;  unwashed  they  have 
arisen.  To  their  garments  cling  the  bits  of  cotton, 
the  threads  of  cotton,  the  strands  of  roping,  badges 


302  THE   WOMAN   WHO    TOILS 

of  their  trade,  brand  of  their  especial  toil.  As  they 
pass  over  the  red  clay,  over  the  pale  yellow  sand,  the 
earth  seems  to  claim  them  as  part  of  her  unchanging 
phase;  cursed  by  the  mandate  primeval — "by  the 
sweat  of  thy  brow" — Earth-Born  ! 

In  the  early  morning  the  giant  mill  swallows  its 
victims,  engorges  itself  with  entering  humanity ;  then 
it  grows  active,  stirring  its  ponderous  might  to  life, 
movement  and  sound.  Hear  it  roar,  shudder, 
shattering  the  stillness  for  half  a  mile !  It  is  full 
now  of  flesh  and  blood,  of  human  life  and  brain  and 
fiber :  it  is  content !  Triumphantly  during  the 
long,  long  hours  it  devours  the  tithe  of  body  and 
soul. 

Behind  lies  the  deserted,  accursed  village,  desti- 
tute of  life  during  the  hours  of  day,  condemned  to  the 
care  of  a  few  women,  the  old,  the  bedridden  and  the 
sick — cf  which  last  there  are  plenty. 

Mighty  Mills — pride  of  the  architect  and  the 
commercial  magnate;  charnel  houses,  devastators, 
destructors  of  homes  and  all  that  mankind  calls 
hallowed ;  breeders  of  strife,  of  strike,  of  immorality, 
of  sedition  and  riot — buildings  tremendous — you 
give  your  immutable  faces,  myriads-windowed,  to  the 
dust-heaps,  to  the  wind-swept  plains  of  sand.  When 
South  Carolina  shall  have  taken  from  you  (as  its 
honour  and  wisdom  and  citizenship  is  bound  to  do) 
the  youngest  of  the  children,  do  you  think  that  you 
shall  inevitably  continue  to  devour  what  remains? 


THE   CHILD    IN   SOUTHERN   MILLS  303 

There  is  too  much  resistance  yet  left  in  the  mass  of 
human  beings.  Youth  will  then  rebel  at  a  servitude 
beginning  at  ten  years  of  age:  and  the  women  will  lift 
their  arms  above  their  heads  one  day  in  desperate 
gesture  of  appeal  and  cry  out — not  for  the  million- 
aire's surplus;  not  a  tirade  anarchistic  against 
capital.  .  .  .  What  is  this  woman  of  the  hills 
and  woman  of  the  mills  that  she  should  so  demand  ? 
She  will  call  for  hours  short  enough  to  permit  her  to 
bear  her  children;  for  requital  commensurate  with 
the  exigence  of  progressive  civilization;  for  wages 
equal  to  her  faithful  toil. 

This  is  not  too  fantastic  a  demand  or  too  ideal  a 
state  to  be  divinely  hoped  for,  believed  in  and 
brought  to  pass.* 

Not  inapt  here  is  the  pagan  idea  of  Nous,  moving 
upon  chaos,  stirring  the  stagnant,  unresponsive 
forces  into  motion ;  agitating  these  forces  into  action ; 
the  individual  elements  separate  and  go  forth,  each 
one  on  its  definitely  inspired  mission.  Some  inevi- 
table hour  shall  see  the  universal  agitation  of  the 
vast  body  known  as  the  "  labouring  class. "  For  the 
welfare  of  the  whole  world,  may  it  not  come  whilst 
they  are  so  ignorant  and  so  down-pressed. 

*  Of  the  21,000,000  spindles  in  the  United  States,  the  South 
has  6,000,000.  $35,381,000  of  Carolina's  wealth  is  in  cotton 
mills. 


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